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THE 

DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 



A MELODRAMA 



By 
BERNARD SHAW 




NEW YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

1913 



r 



•31,3 



Copyright, 1900, by Herbert S. Stone <fe Co. 



Copyright, 1906, by Brentano'a 



/^. 1^0 



f^\ rs( k n r- A ■* rr o 



THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 

LONDON, 1897 



THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 

ACT I 

At the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry 
morning in the year 1777, Mrs. Dudgeon, of New Hampshire, 
is sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling room of her 
farm house on the outskirts of the town of Wehsterhridge. She 
is- not a prepossessing woman. No woman looks her best after 
sitting up all night; and Mrs. Dudgeon's face, even at its best, is 
grimly trenched by the channels into which the barren forms and 
observances of a dead Puritanism can pen a bitter temper and a 
fierce pride. She is an elderly matron who has worked hard 
and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her 
sordid hmne, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and 
respectability among her neighbors, to whom drink and debauch- 
ery are still so much more tempting than religion and rectitude, 
that they conceive goodness simply as self-denial. This con- 
ception is easily extended to others-denial, and finally generalized 
as covering anything disagreeable. So Mrs. Dudgeon, being 
exceedingly disagreeable, is held to be exceedingly good. Short 
of flat felony, she enjoys complete license except for amiable 
iceaknesses of any soH, and is consequently, without knowing it, 
the most licentious ivoman in the parish on the strength of never 
having broken the seventh commandment or missed a Sunday at 
the Presbyterian church. 

The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused by the 
breaking-off of the American colonies from England, more by 
their own weigU than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, 
the shooting being idealized to the English mind as suppression 
of rebellion and maintenance of British dominion, and to the 

3 



4 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

American as defence of liheHy, resistance to tyranny, and self- 
sacrifice on the altar of the Rights of Man. Into the merits of 
these idealizations it is not here necessary to inquire: suffice it to 
say, ivithout prejudice, that they have convinced both Americans 
and English that the most high minded course for them to pursue 
is to kill as many of one another as possible, and that military 
operations to that end are in full swing, morally supported by 
confident requests from the clergy of both sides for the blessing of 
God on their arms. 

Under such circumstances many other women besides this 
disagreeable Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night 
waiting for news. Like her, too, they fall asleep towards morn- 
ing at the risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen fire. Mrs. 
Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over her head, and her feet an a 
broad fender of iron laths, the step of the domestic altar of the 
fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its hinged arm above 
the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The plain kitchen table is 
opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin sconce. 
Her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushimied and 
unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and a seat con- 
ventionally moulded to the sitter's curves, it is comparatively a 
chair of state. The room has three doors, one on the same side 
as the fireplace, near the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, 
at the opposite end of the opposite wall, leading to the scullery 
and washhouse; and the housedoor, ivith its latch, heavy lock, 
and clumsy wooden bar, in the front wall, between the ivirtdow in 
its middle and the corner next the bedroom door. Beticeen the 
door and the ivindow a rack of pegs suggests to the deductive 
observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are no 
hats or coats on them. On the other side of the window the clock 
hangs on a nail, with its ivhite wooden dial. Mack ircm weights, 
and brass pendulum. Between the clock and the corner, a big 
cupboard, locked, stands on a divarf dresser full of commcm 
crockery. 

On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the 
corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against 
the wall. An inspection of its stridulous surface shews that 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 5 

Mrs. Dudgecm is not alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has 
fallen asleep on it. She is a wild, timid looking creature with 
black hair and tanned skin. Her frock, a scanty garment, is 
rent, weatherstained, herrystained, and by no means scrupulously 
clean. It hangs on her with a freedom which, taken with her 
brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of under- 
clothing. 

Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough 
to wake the sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs. 
Dudgeon a little. Finally the latch is tried, whereupon she 
springs up at once. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (threateningly). Well, why don't you open 
the door? (She sees that the girl is asleep, and immediately 
raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation.) Well, dear, dear me! 
Now this is — (shaking her) wake up, wake up: do you hear? 

The Girl (sitting up) . What is it ? 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, 
you unfeeling sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your 
father hardly cold in his grave. 

The Girl (half asleep still). I didn't mean to. I dropped 
off 

Mrs. Dudgeon (cutting her short). Oh yes, you've plenty 
of excuses, I daresay. Dropped off! (Fiercely, as the knocking 
recommences.) Why don't you get up and let your uncle in ? 
after me waiting up all night for him ! (She pushes her rudely 
off the sofa.) There: I'll open the door: much good you are 
to wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit. 

The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log 
on. Mrs. Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into 
the stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the 
chill of the dawn, also her second son Christy, a fattish, stupid, 
fairhaired, roundfaced man of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl 
and grey overcoat. He hurries, shivering, to the fire, leaving 
Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door. 

Christy (at the fire). F — f — f! but it is cold. (Seeing 
the girl, and staring lumpishly at her.) Why, who are you ? 



6 The Devil's l!)isciple Act I 

The Girl (shyly). Essie. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Oh, you may well ask. (To Essie.) Go 
to your room, child, and lie down, since you haven't feeling 
enough to keep you awake. Your history isn't fit for your own 
cars to hear. 

Essie. I 

Mrs. Dudgeon {peremptorily). Don't answer me, Miss; 
but shew your obedience by doing what I tell you. {Essie ^ 
almost in tears, crosses the room to the door near tlie sofa.) And 
don't forget your prayers. {Essie goes out.) She'd have gone to 
bed last night just as if nothing had happened if I'd let her. 

Christy {phlegmatically). Well, she can't be expected to 
feel Uncle Peter's death like one of the family. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. What are you talking about, child ? Isn't 
she his daughter — the punishment of his wickedness and 
shame? {She assaults her chair by sitting doicn.) 

Christy {staring). Uncle Peter's daughter! 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Why else should she be here? D'ye 
think I've not had enough trouble and care put upon me bring- 
ing up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing 
brother, without having your uncle's bastards 

Christy {interrupt hig her with an apprehensive glance at 
the door by ivhich Essie went out). Sh! She may hear you. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {raising her voice). Let her hear me. Peo- 
ple who fear God don't fear to give the devil's work its right 
name. {Christy, soullessly indiflerent to the strife of Good and 
Evil, stares at the fire, warming himself.) WeW, how long are 
you going to stare there like a stuck pig ? W-'hat news have you 
for me? 

Christi' {taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack 
to hang them up). The minister is to break the news to you. 
He'll be here presently. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Break what news ? 

Christy {standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his 
hat up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speak- 
ing with callous placidity, considering the nature of the an- 
nouncement). Father's dead too. 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 7 

Mrs. Dudgeon (stupent). Your father! 

Christy {sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming him- 
self again, attending much more to the fire than to his mother). 
Well, it's not my fault. When we got to Nevinstown we found 
him ill in bed. He didn't know us at JBrst. The minister 
sat up with him and sent me away. He died in the night. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (bursting into dry angry tears). Well, I do 
think this is hard on me — very hard on me. His brother, that 
was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the public gal- 
lows as a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at home 
where his duty was, with his own family, goes after him and 
dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. After sending this 
girl to me to take care of, too! (She plucks her shawl vexedly 
over her ears.) It's sinful, so it is; downright sinful. 
/ Christy (with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause). I 
think it's going to be a fine morning, after all. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (railing at him). A fine morning! And 
your father newly dead! Where's your feelings, child.'' 

Christy (obstinately). Well, I didn't mean any harm. I 
su[)pose a man may make a remark about the weather even 
if his father's dead. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (bitterly). A nice comfort my children are 
to me! One son a fool, and the other a lost sinner that's 
left his home to live with smugglers and gipsies and villains, 
the scum of the earth ! 

Someone knocks. 

Christy (without moving). That's the minister. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (sharply) . Well, aren't you going to let Mr. 
Anderson in ? 

Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries 
her face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome 
ivith grief. Christy opens the door, and admits the minister, 
Anthony Anderson, a shreicd, genial, ready Presbyterian divine 
of about 50, with something of the authority of his profession in 
his bearing. But it is an altogether secular authority, siveetened 
by a conciliatory, sensible manner not at all suggestive of a quite 
thoroughgoing other-worldliness . He is a strong, healthy man. 



8 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

too, with a thick, sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth 
cuts into someivhat fleshy corners. No doubt an excellent par- 
son, bid still a man capable of making the most of this world, and 
perhaps a little apologetically conscious of getting on better 
with it than a sound Presbyterian ouglii. 

Anderson {to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs. Dudgeon 
whilst he takes off his cloak). Have you told her? 

Christy. She made me. {He shuts the door; yawns; and 
loafs across to the sofa, where he sits down and presently drops 
off to sleep.) 

Ajiderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then he 
hangs /iw cloak and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon dries her 
eyes and looks up at him. 

Anderson. Sister : the Lord has laid his hand very heavily 
upon you. 

Mrs. Dttdgeon {urith intensely recalcitrant resignation). 
It's His will, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think 
it hard. What call had Timothy to go to Springtown, and 
remind everybody that he belonged to a man that was being 
hanged ? — and {spitefully) that deserved it, if ever a man did. 

Anderson {gently). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Timothy never acknowledged him as his 
brother after we were married: he had too much respect for 
me to insult me with such a brother. Would such a selfish 
wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy hanged, 
do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I must 
bear my cross as best I may: least said is soonest mended. 

Anderson {very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with 
his back to it). Your eldest son was present at the execution, 
Mrs. Dudgeon. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {disagreeably surprised). Richard? 

Anderson {nodding). Yes. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {vindictively). Let it be a warning to him. 
' He may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless — 
{she suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, ivith evident 
dread) Did Timothy see him? 

Anderson. Yes. 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 9 

Mrs. Dudgeon (holding her breath). Well? 

Anderson. He only saw him in the crowd: they did not 
speak. (Mrs. Dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up 
breath and sits at her ease again.) Your husband was greatly 
touched and impressed by his brother's awful death. (Mrs. 
Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks ofl to demand with some 
indignation) Well, wasn't it only natural, Mrs. Dudgeon ? He 
softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He sent 
for him to come to see him. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {her alarm renewed). Sent for Richard! 

Anderson. Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent 
his father a message; but I'm sorry to say it was a wicked mes- 
sage — an awful message. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. What was it? — ^ 

Anderson. That he would stand by his wicked uncle, > 
and stand against his good parents, in this world and the next. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {implacably). He will be punished for it. | 
He will be punished for it — in both worlds. 

Anderson. That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We 
are told that the wicked shall be punished. \\Tiy should we 
do our duty and keep God's law if there is to be no difference 
made between us and those who follow their own likings and 
dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their Maker's word ? 

Anderson. Well, Richard's earthly father has been mer- 
ciful to him; and his heavenly judge is the father of us all. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {forgetting herself). Richard's earthly 
father was a softheaded 

Anderson {shocked). Oh! 

Mrs. Dudgeon {with a touch of shame). Well, I am Rich- 
ard's mother. If I am against him who has any right to be 
for him? {Trying to conciliate him.) Won't you sit down, 
Mr. Anderson? I should have asked you before; but I'm so 
troubled. 

Anderson. Thank you. {He takes a chair from beside the 
fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. 
When he is seated he adds, in the tone of a man who knows that 



10 The DeviFs Disciple Act I 

he is opoiing a difficult subject.) Has Christy told you about 
the new will? 

Mhs. Dudgeon (oil her feors returning). The new will! 
Did Timothy — ? {She breaks ojf, gasping, U7iable to complete 
the question.) 

Anderson. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind. 

IVIrs. Dudgeon (white with intense rage). And you let him 
rob me? 

Anderson. I had no power to prevent him giving what 
was his to his own son. 

Mrs. Di'dgeon. He had nothing of his own. His money 
was the money I brought him as my marriage portion. It 
was for me to deal with my own money and my own son. 
He dare not have done it if I had been with him; and well he 
knew it. That was why he stole away like a thief to take 
advantage of the law^ to rob me by making a new will behind 
my back. The more shame on yi.u, ]\Ir. Anderson, — you, 
a minister of the gospel — to act as his accomplice in such a 
crime. 

Anderson (rising). I will take no offence at w^hat you 
say in the first bitterness of your grief. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (contemptuousli/). Grief! 

Anderson. Well, of your disappointment, if you can find 
it in your heart to think that the better word. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. My heart! My heart! And since when, 
pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy 
guides for us ? 



Anderson (rather guilt Hi/). I — er 

Mrs. Dudgeon (vehementh/). Don't lie, Mr. Anderson. We 
are told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, 
and desperately wicked. INIy heart belonged, not to Timothy, 
but to that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended his 
days with a rope round his neck — aye, to Peter Dudgeon. You 
know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you suc- 
ceeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told 
it you when he gave over our souls into your charge. He 
warned me and strengthened me against my heart, and made 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 11 

me marry a Godfearing man — as he thought. What else but 
that discipline has made me the woman I am ? And you, you 
who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk to me of 
what I find in my heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man; 
and leave me to my prayers. (Hhe turns from him and leans 
with her elbows on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking 
no further notice of him.) 

Anderson {willing enough to escape). The Lord forbid 
that I should come between you and the source of all crmfort! 
{He goes to the rack for his coat and hat.) 

Mrs. Dudgeon {without looking at him). The Lord will 
know what to forbid and what to allow without your help. 

Anderson. And whom to forgive, I hope — Kh' ILiwkins 
and myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against His 
law. {He fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go.) Just one 
word — on necessary business, Mrs. Dudgeon. There is the 
reading of the will to be gone through; and Richard has a 
right to be present. He is in the town ; but he has the grace to 
say that he does not want to force himself in here. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. He shall come here. Does he expect us 
to leave his father's house for his convenience.^ Let them all 
come, and come quickly, and go quickly. They shall not make 
the will an excuse to shirk half their day's work. I shall be 
ready, never fear. 

AisiBEUHON {co7ning back a step or two). Mrs. Dudgeon: 
I used to have' some little influence with you. When did I lose 
it? 

Mrs. Dudgeon {still ivithout turning to him). When you 
married for love. Now you're answered. 

Anderson. Yes: I am answered. {He goes out, musing.) 

Mrs. Dudgeon {to herself, thinking of her hu^sband). Thief! 
Thief!! {She shakes herself angrily out of the chair; thrcws 
back the .shawl from her head; and sets to work to prepare the 
room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing Ander- 
son's chair again.st the wall, and pushing back her own to the 
window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving, wrathful way) 
Christy. {No answer; he is fast asleep.) Christy. {She 



12 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

shakes him roughly.) Get up out of that; and be ashamed of 
yourself — sleeping, and your father dead! (She returns to the 
table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the 
table draiver a red table cloth which she spreads.) 

Christy (rising reluctantly). Well, do you suppose we are 
never going to sleep until we are out of mourning ? 

Mrs. Dudgeon. I want none of your sulks. Here: help 
me to set this table. (They place the table in the middle of the 
room, with Christy's end towards the fireplace and Mrs. Dud- 
geon's towards the sofa. Christy drops the table as soon as 
possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make the 
final adjustments of its position.) We shall have the minister 
back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will 
before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake that 
girl; and then light the stove in the shed: you can't have your 
breakfast here. And mind you wash yourself, and make your- 
self fit to receive the company. (She punctuates these orders 
by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and producing a de- 
canter of wine, which has no doubt stood there untouched since..,^ 
the last state occasion in the family, and some glasses, which she 
sets on the table. Also two green ware plates, on one of which 
she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it. On the other she 
shakes some biscuits oid of a tin, putting back one or two, and 
counting the rest.) Now mind: there are ten biscuits there: 
let there be ten there when I come back after dressing myself. 
And keep your fingers off the raisins in that cake. And tell 
Essie the same. I suppose I can trust you to bring in the case 
of stuffed birds without breaking the glass ? (She replaces 
the tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key 
carefully.) 

Christy (lingering at the fire). You'd better put the ink- 
stand instead, for the lawyer. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. That's no answer to make to me, sir. 
Go and do as you're told. (Christy turns sullenly to obey.) 
Stop : take down that shutter before you go, and let the day- 
light in: you can't expect me to do all the hea\y work of the 
house with a great heavy lout Uke you idhng about. 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 13 

Christy takes the window bar out of its clamps, and puts it 
aside; then opens the shutter, shewing the grey morning. Mrs. 
Dudgeon takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the 
candle; extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, 
first licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on the 
shelf. 

Christy (looking through the window). Here's the minis- 
ter's wife. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (displeased). What! Is she coming here? 

Christy. Yes. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. What does she want troubling me at this 
hour, before I'm properly dressed to receive people? 

Christy. You'd better ask her. 

Mrs. Dudgeon (threateningly) . You'd better keep a civil 
tongue in your head. (He goes sulkily towards the door. She 
comes after him, plying him with instructions.) Tell that 
girl to come to me as soon as she's had her breakfast. And 
tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the people. 
(Christy goes out and slams the door in her face.) Nice 
manners, that! (Someone knocks at the hou^e door: she turns 
and cries inhospitably.) Come in. (Judith Anderson, the 
minister's wife, comes in. Judith is more than twenty years 
younger than her husband, though she tvill never be as young 
cw he in vitality. She is pretty and proper and ladylike, and 
has been admired and petted into an opinion of herself suffi- 
ciently favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her 
instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in 
her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by 
dreams. Even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a 
child's vanity. Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic 
observer who knows how rough a place the world is. One 
feels, on the whole, that Anderson might have chosen worse, 
and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen better.) 
Oh, it's you, is it, Mrs. Anderson? 

JvBiTii (very politely — almost patronizingly). Yes. Can I 
do anything for you, Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the 
place ready before they come to read the will? 



14 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

Mrs. Dudgeon (stiffly). Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my 
house is always ready for anyone to come into. 

Mrs. Anderson (leith complacent amiability). Yes, indeed 
it is. Perhaps you had rather I did not intrude on you just 
now. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Oh, one more or less will make no 
difference this morning, Mrs. Anderson. Now that you're 
here, you'd better stay. If you wouldn't mind shutting the 
door! {Judith smiles, im'phjing ''How stupid of ine!" and 
shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty 
and becoming.) That's better. I must go and tidy myself 
a bit. I suppose you don't mind stopping here to receive 
anyone that comes until I'm ready. 

Judith (graciously giving her leave). Oh yes, certainly. 
Leave them to me, Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. 
(She hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack.) 

Mrs. Dudgeon (half sneering). I thought that would be 
more in your way than getting the house ready. (Essie 
comes back.) Oh, here you are! (Severely) Come here: 
let me see you. (Essie timidly goes to her. Mi's. Dudgeon 
takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect 
the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself — residts 
which shew little practice and less conviction.) Mm! That's 
what you call doing your hair properly, I suppose. It's easy 
to see what you are, and how you were brought up. (She 
throws her arms aivay, and goes on, peremptorily.) Now you 
listen to me and do as you're told. You sit down there in the 
corner by the fire; and when the company comes don't dare to 
speak until you're spoken to. (Essie creeps away to the fire- 
place.) Your father's people had better see you and know 
you're there: they're as much bound to keep you from starva- 
tion as I am. At any rate they might help. But let me have 
no chattering and making free with them, as if you were their 
equal. Do you hear? 

Essie. Yes. 

Mrs. Dudgeon. Well, then go and do as you're told. 
(Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 15 

from the door.) Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson: you know 
who she is and what she is. If she gives you any trouble, 
just tell me; and I'll settle accounts with her. {Mrs. Dudgeon 
goes into the bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as 
if even it had to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand.) 

Judith {patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine 
on the table more becomingly). You must not mind if your 
aunt is strict with you. She is a very good woman, and desires 
your good too. 

Essie {in listless misery). Yes. 

Judith {annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled 
and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the 
remark). You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie. 

Essie. No. 

Judith. That's a good girl ! {She places a couple of chairs 
at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant 
sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs. Dud- 
geon.) Do you know any of your father's relatives? 

Essie. No. They wouldn't have anything to do with him: 
they were too religious. Father used to talk about Dick 
Dudgeon; but I never saw him. 

Judith {ostentatiously shocked). Dick Dudgeon! Essie: 
do you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and 
to make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct ? 

Essie {very half-heartedly). Yes. 

Judith. Then you must never mention the name of 
Richard Dudgeon — never even think about him. He is a 
bad man. 

Essie. What has he done ? 

Judith. You must not ask questions about him, Essie. 
You are too young to know what it is to be a bad man. But 
he is a smuggler; and he lives with gypsies; and he has no 
love for his mother and his family; and he wrestles and plays 
games on Sunday instead of going to church. Never let him 
into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep 
yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such 
men. 



16 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

Essie. Yes. 

Judith (again displeased). I am afraid you say Yes and 
No without thinking very deeply. 

Essie. Yes. At least I mean 

Judith (severely). What do you mean? 

Essie (almost crying). Only — my father was a smuggler; 
and — (Someone knocks.) 

Judith. They are beginning to come. Now remember 
your aunt's directions, Essie; and be a good girl. (Christy 
comes back with the stand of stufjed birds under a glass case, 
and an inkstand, which he places on the table.) Good morn- 
ing, Mr. Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please: the 
people have come. 

Christy. Good morning. (He opens the house door.) 

The morning is now fairly bright and ivarm; and Anderson, 
who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is ac- 
companied by Laicyer Hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in 
broivn riding gaiters and yelloic breeches, looking as much squire 
as solicitor. Fie and Anderson are alloiced precedence as rep- 
resenting the learned professions. After them comes the family, 
headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large, shapeless 
man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. Hi^ clothes 
are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a prosperous 
man. The junior uncle, Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry little terrier 
of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both 
free from the cares of the William household. 

Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair 
nearest the sofa, Christy having left the inkMand there. He 
pids his hat on the floor beside him, and produces the will. 
Uncle William comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warm- 
ing his coat tails, leaving Mrs. William derelict near the door. 
Uncle Titus, who is the lady^s man of the family, rescues her 
by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, 
where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his 
brother's. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word 
with Judith. 

Judith. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 17 

wait. (She taps at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer 
from within, she opens it and passes throvgh.) 

Anderson (taking his place at the table at the opposite end 
to Hawkins). Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a 
moment. Are we all here ? 

Christy (at the house door, which he has just shut). All 
except Dick. 

The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars 
on the moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his 
head slowly and repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches her breath 
convulsively through her nose. Her husband speaks. 

Uncle Titus. Well, I hope he will have the grace not to 
come. I hope so. 

The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes 
to the window and posts himself there, looking out. Hawkins 
smiles secretively as if he knew something that would change 
their tune if they knew it. Anderson is uneasy: the love of 
solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his 
nature. Judith appears at the bedroom door. 

Judith (with gentle impressiveness) . Friends, Mrs. Dud- 
geon. (She takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and 
places it for Mrs. Dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in 
black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, except 
Essie. Mrs. Titus and Mrs. William produce equally clean 
handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment.) 

Uncle William. Would it comfort you, sister, if we were 
to offer up a prayer ? 

Uncle Titus. Or sing a hymn? 

Anderson (rather hastily). I have been with our sister 
this morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing. 

All (except Essie). Amen. 

They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs. 
Dudgeon's chair. 

Judith (to Essie). Essie: did you say Amen? 

Essie (scaredly). No. 

Judith. Then say it, Hke a good girl. 

Essie. Amen. 



18 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

Uncle William {encouragingly) . That's right : that's right. 
We know who you are; but we are wilHng to be kind to you 
if you are a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal before 
the Throne. 

This republican sentiment does not please the women, irho 
are convinced that the Throne is precisely the place ichere their 
superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized 
and rewarded. 

Christy {at the icindoic). Here's Dick. 

Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, u-ith a 
gleam of interest breaking through her m isery, looks up. Christy 
grins and gapes expectantly at the door. The rest are petri- 
fied with the intensity of their sense of Virtue menaced with 
outrage by the approach of flaunting Vice. The reprobate 
appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged merits by 
the morning sunlight. He is certainly the best looking mem- 
ber of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his 
manner defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. 
Only, his forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary stead- 
fastness; and his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic. 

Richard {on the threshold, taking off his hat). Ladies and 
gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. {With 
this comprehensive insult, he throics his hat to Christy with a 
suddemiess that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper, , 
and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and' 
deliberately surveys the company.) How happy you all look! I 
how glad to see me ! {He turns towards Mrs. D udgeon 's chair; 
and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her- 
look of ujidisguised. hatred.) Well, mother: keeping up ap- 
pearances as usual? that's right, that's right. {Judith point- 
edly moves away from his neighborhood to the other side of the 
kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it from con- 
tamination. Uncle Titus promptly marks his approval of her 
action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her to sit 
down upon.) What! Uncle William! I haven't seen you 
since you gave up drinking. {Poor Uncle William, shamed, 
would protest; but Richard claps him heartily 07i his shoidder. 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 19 

adding) you have given it up, haven't you ? {releasing him with 
a playful push) of course you have: quite right too: you over- 
did it. (He turns away from Uncle William and makes for the 
sofa.) And now, where is that upright horsedealer Uncle 
Titus? Uncle Titus: come forth. (11 e comes upon him liold- 
ingthe chair as Judith sits down.) As usual, looking after the 
ladies. 

Uncle" Titus {indignantly). Be ashamed of yourself, 



sir- 



IliciiARD {interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of 
him). I am: I am; but I am proud of my uncle — proud of all 
my relatives — {again surveying them) who could look at them 
and not be proud and joyful.? {Uncle Titus, overborne, re- 
sumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to the table.) Ah, 
Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them. 
Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the 
mark. Come! {with a spring he seats himself on the table 
and takes up the decanter) cUnk a glass with me. Pastor, for the 
sake of old times. 

Anderson. You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do 
not drink before dinner. 

Richard. You will, some day. Pastor: Uncle WiUiam 
used to drink before breakfast. Come: it will give your ser- 
mons unction. {He smells the wine and makes a wry face.) 
But do not begin on my mother's company sherry. I stole 
some when I was six years old; and I have been a temperate 
man ever since. {He puts the decanter down and changes the 
subject.) So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife 
has a most ungodly allowance of good looks. 

Anderson {quietly indicating Judith). Sir: you are in the 
presence of my wife. {Judith rises and stands with strniy pro- 
priety.) 

Richard {quickly slipping down from the table with instinc- 
tive good manners) . Your servant, madam: no offence. {He 
looks at her earnestly.) You deserve your reputation; but I'm 
sorry to see by your expression that you're a good woman. 
(She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant 



20 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

sympathy from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough to know 
thai these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man 
ivho is deliberately trying to provoke thertiy remains perfectly 
goodhumored.) All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than 
I did before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that our 
late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a father? 

Uncle Titus. He had only one irregular child, sir. 

Richard. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I 
blush for you. Uncle Titus. 

Anderson. Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your 
mother and her grief. 

Richard. It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, 
what has become of the irregular child ? 

Anderson {pointing to Essie). There, sir, listening to you. 

Richard {shocked into sincerity). What! Why the devil 
didn't you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in 
this house without — {He hurries remorsefully to Essie.) Come, 
little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you. 
{She looks up gratefully at him. Her tearstained face affects 
him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath) Who 
has been making her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? 
By God 

Mrs. Dudgeon {rising and confronting him). Silence your 
blasphemous tongue. I will bear no more of this. Leave my 
house. 

Richard. How do you know it's your house until the will 
is read ? ( They look at one another for a moment with intense 
hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. Rich- 
ard goes boldly up past Anderson to the window, where he takes 
the railed chair in his hand.) Ladies and gentlemen: as the 
eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head of this 
household, I bid you welcome. By your leave. Minister An- 
derson: by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the 
table for the head of the family. {He places the chair at the 
table between the minister and the attorney; sits down between 
them; and addresses the assembly with a presidential air.) We 
meet on a melancholy occasion : a father dead ! an uncle actu- 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 21 

ally hanged, and probably damned. {He shakes his head de- 
ploringly. The relatives freeze with horror.) That's right: 
pull your longest faces {his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as 
his glance lights on Essie) pro\4ded only there is hope in the 
eyes of the child. {Briskly.) Now then, Lawyer Hawkins: 
business, business. Get on with the will, man. 

Titus. Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr. 
Hawkins. 

Hawkins {very politely and willingly). Mr. Dudgeon 
means no offence, I feel sure. I will not keep you one second, 
Mr. Dudgeon. Just while I get my glasses — {he fumbles for 
them. The Dudgeons look at one another with misgiving). 

Richard. Aha! They notice your civiUty, Mr. Hawkins. 
They are prepared for the worst. A glass of wine to clear 
your voice before you begin. {He pours out one for him and 
hands it; then pours one for himself.) 

Hawkins. Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, 
sir. 

Richard. Yours, sir. {With the glass half way to his lips, 
he checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, 
with quaint intensity.) Will anyone oblige me with a glass of 
water ? 

Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, 
rises stealthily and slips out behind Mrs. Dudgeon through the 
bedroom door, returning presently with a jug and going out of 
the house as quietly as possible. 

Hawkins. The will is not exactly in proper legal phrase- 
ology. 

Richard. No: my father died without the consolations of 
the law. 

BL\.wkins. Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. {Pre- 
paring to read) Are you ready, sir ? 

Richard. Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to 
receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead. 

Hawkins {reading). "This is the last will and testament 
of me Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Ne\anstown on the 
road from Springtown to Websterb ridge on this twenty-fourth 



^2 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

day of September, one thousand seven hundred and seventy 
seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made by me and 
declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am 
doing and that this is my real will according to my own wish 
and affections." 

Richard (glancing at his mother). Aha! 

Hawkins (shaking his head) . Bad phraseology, sir, wrong 
phraseology. "I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my 
younger son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to 
him on the day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if she will have 
him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of his children up to 
the number of five." 

Richard. How if she won't have him ? 

Christy. She will if I have fifty pounds. 

Richard. Good, my brother. Proceed. 

Hawkins. "I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dud- 
geon, born Annie Primrose" — ^you see he did not know the 
law, Mr. Dudgeon : your mother was not born Annie : she was 
christened so — "an annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for life 
(Mrs. Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself conmdsively 
rigid) to be paid out of the interest on her own money" — 
there's a way to put it, Mr. Dudgeon! Her own money! 

Mrs. Dudgeon. A very good way to put God's truth. It 
was every penny my own. Fifty-two pounds a year! 

Hawkins. "And I recommend her for her goodness and 
piety to tlie forgiving care of her children, having stood be- 
tween them and her as far as I could to the best of my abiUty." 

Mrs. Dudgeon. And this is my reward ! (raging inwardly) 
You know what I think, Mr. Anderson: you know the word 
I gave to it. 

Anderson. It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We 
must take what comes to us. (To Hawkins.) Go on, sir. 

Hawkins. "I give and bequeath my house at Webster- 
bridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of my prop- 
erty soever to my eldest son and heir, Richard Dudgeon." 

Richard. Oho! The fatted calf. Minister, the fatted calf. 

Hawkins. "On these conditions " 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 23 

Richard. The devil! Are there conditions? 

Hawkins. ** To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother 
Peter's natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil 
life." 

Richard (emphatically, striking his fist on the table). 
Agreed. 

Mrs. Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, misses 
her and looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, 
seeing that she has left the room without leave, closes her lips 
vengefidly. 

Hawkins. "Second, that he shall be a good friend to my 
old horse Jim" — (again shaking his head) he should have 
written James, sir. 

Richard. James shall live in clover. Go on. 

Hawkins. — "and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger 
Feston in his service." 

Richard. Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday. 

Hawkins. "Third, that he make Christy a present on his 
marriage out of the ornaments in the best room." 

Richard (holding up the stuffed birds). Here you are, 
Christy. 

Christy (disappointed). I'd rather have the China pea- 
cocks. 

Richard. You shall have both. (Christy is greatly 
pleased.) Go on. 

Hawkins. "Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace 
with his mother as far as she will consent to it." 

Richard (dubiously). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Haw- 
kins? 

Hawkins (solemnly). "Finally I give and bequeath my 
soul into my Maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for 
all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my 
son that it may not be said that I have done wrong in trusting 
to him rather than to others in the perplexity of my last hour 
in this strange place." 

Anderson. Amen. 

The Uncles and Aunts. Amen. 



24 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

Richard. My mother does not say Amen. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {rising, unable to give up her property with- 
out a struggle). Mr. Hawkins: is that a proper will.? Re- 
member, I have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, 
leaving all to me. 

Hawkins. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded 
will, Mrs. Dudgeon; though {turning politely to Richard) it 
contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his property. 

Anderson {interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort). 
That is not what you are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal 
will? 

Hawkins. The courts will sustain it against the other. 

Anderson. But why, if the other is more lawfully worded ? 

Hawkins. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim 
of a man — and that man the eldest son — against any woman, 
if they can. I warned you, Mrs. Dudgeon, when you got me 
to draw that other will, that it was not a wise will, and that 
though you might make him sign it, he would never be easy 
until he revoked it. But you wouldn't take advice; and now 
Mr. Richard is cock of the walk. {He takes his hat from the 
floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles.) 

This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. Anderson 
takes his hat from the rack and joins Uncle William at the fire. 
Uncle Titus fetches Jjidith her things from the rack. The three 
on the sofa rise and chat icith Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now 
an intruder in her own house, stands erect, crushed by the weight 
of the law on women, accepting it, as she has been trained to 
accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of the 
power that inflicts them, and of her oivn icormlike insignificance. 
For at this time, remember, Mary W ollstonecraft is as yet ordy a 
girl of eighteen, and her Vindication of the Rights of Women is 
still fourteen years off. Mrs. Dudgeon is rescued from her 
apathy by Essie, 2vho comes back with the jug full of water. She 
is taking it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon stops her. 

Mrs. Dudgeon {threatening her). Where have you been? 
(Essie, appalled, tries to ans2ver, bid cannot.) How dare you 
go out by yourself after the orders I gave you ? 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 25 

Essie. He asked for a drink — (she stops, her tongue cleav- 
ing to her palate with terror). 

Judith (with gentler severity). Who asked for a drink? 
(Essie, speechless, points to Richard.) 

Richard. What! I! 

Judith (shocked). Oh Essie, Essie! 

Richard. I beHeve I did. (He takes a glass and holds it 
to Essie to be filled. Her handshakes.) What! afraid of me? 

Essie (quickly). No. I — (She pours out the water.) 

Richard (tasting it). Ah, you've been up the street to the 
market gate spring to get that. (He takes a draught.) DeH- 
cious! Thank you. (Unfortunately, at. this moment he 
chances to catch sight of Judith^s face, which expresses the most 
prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for Essie, who is 
devouring him with her grateful eyes. His mocking expression 
returns instantly. He puts down the glass; deliberately winds 
his arm round Essie's shoulders; and brings her into the middle 
of the company. Mrs. Dudgeon being in Essie's way as they 
come past the table, he says) By your leave, mother (and com- 
pels her to make way for them). What do they call you ? Bes- 
sie? 

Essie. Essie. 

Richard. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie? 

Essie (greatly disappointed that he, of all people, should 
begin at her in this way) Yes. (She looks doubtfully at 
Judith.) I think so. I mean I — I hope so. 

Richard. Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the 
devil ? 

Anderson (revolted). Shame on you, sir, with a mere 
child 

Richard. By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with 
your sermons : do not you interrupt mine. (To Essie.) Do you 
know what they call me, Essie ? 

Essie. Dick. 

Richard (amused: patting her on the shoulder). Yes, Dick; 
but something else too. They call me the Devil's Disciple. 

Essie. Why do you let them? 



26 The Devil's Disciple Act I 

Richard (seriomly). Because it's true. I was brought up 
in the other service; but I knew from the first that the Devil 
was my natural master and captain and friend. I saw that 
he was in the right, and that the world cringed to his con- 
queror only through fear. I prayed secretly to him; and he 
comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in 
this house of children's tears. I promised him my soul, and 
swore an oath that I would stand up for him in this world and 
stand by him in the next. {Solemnly) That promise and that 
oath made a man of me. From this day this house is his home; 
and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his altar; and no soul 
shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings and be afraid. 
Now (turning forcibly on the rest) which of you good men will 
take this child and rescue her from the house of the devil ? 

Judith {coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm 
about her). I will. You should be burnt alive. 

Essie. But I don't want to. {She shrinks back, leaving 
Richard and Judith face to face.) 

Richard {to Judith). Actually doesn't want to, most virt- 
uous lady! 

Uncle Titus. Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The 
law 

Richard (turning threateningly on him). Have a care, 
you. In an hour from this there will be no law here but mar- 
tial law. I passed the soldiers within six miles on my way 
here: before noon Major Swindon's gallows for rebels will be 
up in the market place. 

Anderson (calmly). What have we to fear from that, sir? 

Richard. More than you think. He hanged the wrong 
man at Springtown: he thought Uncle Peter was respectable, 
because the Dudgeons had a good name. But his next ex- 
ample will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring 
home a rebellious word. Well, we're all rebels; and you know 
it. 

All the Men (except Anderson). No, no, no! 

Richard. Yes, you are. You haven't damned King 
George up hill and down dale as I have; but you've prayed for 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 27 

his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have conducted the 
service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of pistols. 
They mayn't hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of 
the Devil's Disciple dancing on nothing wouldn't help them. 
But a Minister! (Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson) or a 
lawyer! {Hawkins smiles like a man able to take care of himself) 
or an upright horsedealer! (Uncle Titus snarls at him in rage 
and terror) or a reformed drunkard (Uncle William, utterly un- 
nerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh ? Would that shew 
that King George meant business — ha? 

Anderson (perfectly self-possessed). Come, my dear: he is 
only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. (He takes 
her Old of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him, 
except Essie, who remains near Richard) 

Richard (boisterously derisive). Now then: how many of 
you will stay with me; run up the American flag on the devil's 
house; and make a fight for freedom? (They scramble out, 
Christy among them, hustling one another in their haste.) Ha 
ha ! Long live the devil ! ( To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is folloiving 
them) What, mother! are you off too? 

Mrs. Dudgeon (deadly pale, with her hand on her heaii as 
if she had received a deathblow). My curse on you! My dy- 
ing curse! (She goes out.) 

Richard (calling after her). It will bring me luck. Ha 
ha ha! 

Essie (anociously) . Mayn't I stay? 

Richard (turning to her). What! Have they forgotten to 
save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies ? Oh 
yes: you may stay. (He turns excitedly away again and shakes 
his fist after them. His left fist, also clenched, hangs down. 
Essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. He starts 
and looks at it.) Tears! The devil's baptism! (She falls on 
her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise her, 
saying) Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like. 

END OF act I. 



ACT n 

Minister Anderson^s house is in the main street of Webster- 
bridge, not far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth 
century Neiv Englander, it is much grander than the plain 
farmhouse of the Dudgeons; but it is so 'plain itself that a 
modem house agent tvould let both at about the same rent. The 
chief dioelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace, ivith 
boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle socketed 
to tlie hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender, on which 
stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The door, between 
the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor 
handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with a latch. 
The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of Amer- 
ican cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. The tea service 
on it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, 
with milk jug aiid bowl to match, each large enough to contain 
nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the 
table, a ivooden trencher tcith a big loaf upon it, and a square 
half pound block of butter in a crock. The big oak press facing 
the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, 
not for ornament: and the minister's house coat hangs on a peg 
from its door, shewing that he is out; for when he is in, it is his 
best coat that hangs there. His big riding boots stand beside the 
press, evidnitly in their usual place, and rather proud of them- 
selves. In fact, the evolution of the minister's kitchen, dialing 
room and draiving room into three separate apartments has not 
yet taken place; and so, from the point of vietv of our pampered 
period, he is no better off tluin the Dudgeons. 

But there is a difference, for all that. To begin ivith, Mrs. 
Anderson is a plcasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon. 
To which Mrs. Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that 
Mrs. Anderson has no children to look after; no poultry, pigs 



Act II The DeviFs Disciple 29 

nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent 
on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is a 
tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the min- 
ister's hov^e as it is hard at the farm. This is true; hut to ex- 
plain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit Mrs. An- 
derson may deserve for making her home happier, she has 
certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and visible signs 
of her superior social pretensions are, a drugget on the floor, a 
plaster ceiling between the timbers, and chairs which, though not 
upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are repre- 
sented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a 
copperplate of RaphaeVs St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo 
presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of 
miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, 
and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature of 
the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, 
with little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve 
as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near 
the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate 
two people easily. On the whole, it is rather the sort of room 
that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back 
to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and his disciples in 
domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have 
tolerated it fifty years ago. 

The evening has closed in; and the room is dark, except for 
the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window 
in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless 
downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith 
comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, 
and sets them on the table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning 
are gone: she is anxious and frightened. She goes to the window 
and peers into the street. The first thing she sees there is her 
husband, hurrying home through the rain. She gives a little 
gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the 
door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak. 

Judith (running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last! 
(She attempts to embrace him.) 



30 The Devil's Disciple Act n 

Anderson (keeping her off). Take care, my love: I'm wet. 
Wait till I get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back 
to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his 
hat and pvts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands 
outstretched to Judith.) Now! (She flies into his arms.) I 
am not late, am I.'* The town clock struck the quarter as I 
came in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast. 

Judith. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad 
you're back. 

Anderson (taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious, 
my dear. 

Judith. A little. 

Anderson. Why, youVe been crying. 

Judith. Only a little. Never mind : it's all over now. (A 
bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and re- 
treats to the long seat, listening.) What's that? 

Anderson (following her tenderly to the seat and making her 
sit down with him). Only King George, my dear. He's 
returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting 
ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. Soldiers 
don't ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want 
anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole 
town. 

Judith. Do you think there is really any danger? 

Anderson. Not the least in the world. 

Judith. You say that to comfort me, not because you be- 
lieve it. 

Anderson. My dear: in this world there is always darger 
for those who are afraid of it. There's a danger that the 
house will catch fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the 
less soundly for that. 

Judith. Yes, I know what you always say; and you're 
quite right. Oh, quite right: I know it. But — I suppose I'm 
not brave: that's all. My heart shrinks every time I think of 
the soldiers. 

Anderson. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the 
worse for costing a Httle pain. 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 31 

Judith. Yes, I suppose so. {Embracing him again.) Oh 
how brave you are, my dear! (With tears in her eyes.) Well, 
I'll be brave too: you shan't be ashamed of your wife. 

Anderson. That's right. Now you make me happy. 
Well, well! (He rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his 
shoes.) I called on Richard Dudgeon on my way back; but 
he wasn't in. 

Judith (rising in consternation) . You called on that man ! 

Anderson (reassuring her). Oh, nothing happened, dearie. 
He was out. 

Judith (almost in tears, as ij the visit were a personal humil- 
iation to her) . But why did you go there ? 

Anderson (gravely). Well, it is all the talk that Major 
Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown — make an 
example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. He pounced 
on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there; and it is the 
general belief that he will pounce on Richard as the worst 
here. 

Judith. But Richard said 

Anderson (goodhumoredly cutting her short). Pooh! 
Richard said! He said what he thought would frighten you 
and frighten me, my dear. He said what perhaps (God for- 
give him!) he would like to believe. It's a terrible thing to 
think of what death must mean for a man like that. I felt 
that I must warn him. I left a message for him. 

Judith (querulously). What message? 

Anderson. Only that I should be glad to see him for a 
moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if he 
would look in here when he was passing he would be welcome. 

Judith (aghast). You asked that man to come here! 

Anderson. I did. 

Judith (sinking on the seat and clashing her hands). I 
hope he won't come ! Oh, I pray that he may not come ! 

Anderson. Why ? Don't you want him to be warned ? 

Judith. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it 
wrong to hate a blasphemer and a villain? I do hate him? 
I can't get him out of my mind : I know he will bring harm 



32 The Devirs Disciple Act II 

with him. He insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted his 
mother. 

Anderson (quaintly). Well, dear, let's forgive him; and 
then it won't matter. 

Judith. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody; 
but 

Anderson (going over io her ivith humorous tenderness). 
Come, dear, you're not so wicked as you think. The worst 
sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be 
indifferent to them : that's the essence of inhumanity. After all, 
my dear, if you watch people carefully, you'll be surprised to 
.find how like hate is to love. (She starts, strangely touched — 
even appalled. He is amused at her.) Yes: I'm quite in 
earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry one 
another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can't bear 
to let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers 
and slave-owners than lovers. Think of those very same peo- 
ple with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, deter- 
mined to be independent of one another^ careful of how they 
speak of one another — pooh ! haven't you often thought that if 
they only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies 
than to their own husbands and wives? Come: depend on it, 
my dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, 
if you only knew it. Eh ? 

Judith. Oh, don't say that: don't say that, Tony, even in 
jest. You don't know what a horrible feeling it gives me. 

Anderson (laughing). Well, well: never mind, pet. He's 
a bad man ; and you hate him as he deserves. And you're going 
to make the tea, aren't you ? 

Judith (remorsefully). Oh yes, I forgot. I've been keep- 
ing you waiting all this time. (She goes to the fire and puts on 
the kettle.) 

Anderson (going to the press and taking his coat off) . Have 
you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat? 

Judith. Yes, dear. (She goes to the table, and sets about 
putting tlie tea into the teapot from the caddy.) 

Anderson (as he changes his coat for the older one hanging 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 33 

on the press, and replaces it bij the one he has just taken ofj). Did 
anyone call when I was out ? 

Judith. No, ov\y— {someone knocks at the door. With a 
start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the 
further end of the table ivith the tea caddy and spoon in her 
hands, exclaiming) Who's that? 

Anderson {going to her and patting her encouragingly on 
the shoidder). All right, pet, all right. He won't eat you, 
whoever he is. {She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. 
He goes to the door and opens it. Richard is there, without 
overcoat or cloak.) You might have raised the latch and come 
in, Mr. Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much ceremony with us. 
{Hospitably.) Come in. {Richard comes in carelessly and 
stands at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of 
his nose at the mezzotinted divine on the wall. Judith keeps her 
eyes on the tea caddy.) Is it still raining ? {He shuts the door.) 

Richard. Raining like the very {his eije catches Judith's 
as she looks quickly and haughtily up) — I beg your pardon; 
but {shewing that his coat is wet) you see ! 

Anderson. Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire 
a while: my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith : put in 
another spoonful of tea for Mr. Dudgeon. 

Richard {eyeing him cynically). The magic of property. 
Pastor! Are even you civil to me now that I have succeeded 
to my father's estate ? 

Judith throws down the spoon indignantly. 

Anderson {quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with his 
coat). I think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you 
cannot have so bad an opinion of it. Sit down. {With the 
coat in his hand, he points to the railed seat. Richard, in his 
shirtsleeves, looks at him hcdf quarrelsomely for a moment; then, 
with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the better of 
him, and sits doivn on the seat. Anderson pushes his cloak into 
a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and hangs Richard's 
coat on the back in its place.) 

Richard. I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left 
word you had something important to tell me. 



34 The Devil's Disciple Act IT 

Anderson. I have a warning which it is my duty to give 
you. 

Richard (quickly rising) . You want to preach to me. Ex- 
cuse me: I prefer a walk in the rain. (He makes for his coat.) 

Anderson (stopping him). Don't be alarmed, sir; I am no 
great preacher. You are quite safe. (Richard smiles in spite 
of himself. His glance softens: he even makes a gesture of 
excuse. Anderson, seeing that he has tamed him, now addresses 
him earnestly.) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in danger in this town. 

Richard. What danger? 

Anderson. Your uncle's danger. Major Swindon's gal- 
lows. 

Richard. It is you who are in danger. I warned 
you 

Anderson (interrupting him goodhumoredly hid aidhori- 
taiively). Yes, yes, ISIr. Dudgeon; but they do not think so in 
the town. And even if I were in danger, I have duties here 
which I must not forsake. But you are a free man. Why 
should you run any risk ? 

Richard. Do you think I should be any great loss, Min- 
ister ? 

Anderson. I think that a man's life is worth saA'ing, who- 
ever it belongs to. (Richard makes him an ironical bow. An- 
derson returns the bow humorously.) Come: you'll have a cup 
of tea, to prevent you catching cold ? 

Richard. I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so 
pressing as you are, Pastor. 

Judith (abnost stifled with resentment, which she has been 
expecting her husband to share and express for her at every 
ijisult of Richard's). You are welcome for my husband's sake. 
(She brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the hob.) 

Richard. I know I am not welcome for my own, madam. 
{He rises.) But I think I will not break bread here. Minister. 

Anderson (cheerily). Give me a good reason for that. 

Richard. Because there is something in you that I re- 
spect, and that makes me desire to have you for my enemy. 

Anderson. That's well said. On those terms, sir, I will 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 35 

accept your enmity or any man's. Judith : Mr. Dudgeon will 
stay to tea. Sit down: it will take a few minutes to draw by 
the fire. {Richard glances at him with a troubled face; then sits 
down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive swelling of his 
throat.) I was just saying to my wife, Mr. Dudgeon, that 
enmity — (she grasps his hand and looks iirvploringly at hirriy 
doing both with an intensity that checks him at once) Well, 
well, I mustn't tell you, I see; but it was nothing that need 
leave us worse friend — enemies, I mean. Judith is a great 
enemy of yours. 

Richard. If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson, I 
should be the best Christian in America. 

Anderson {gratified, patting her hand). You hear that, 
Judith ? Mr. Dudgeon knows how to turn a compHment. 

The latch is lifted from withoid. 

Judith {starting). Who is that? 

Christy comes in. 

Christy {stopping and staring at Richard). Oh, are you 
here ? 

Richard. Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn't 
want the whole family to tea at once. 

Christy {coming further in). Mother's very ill. 

Richard. Well, does she want to see me? 

Christy. No. 

Richard. I thought not. 

Christy. She wants to see the minister — at once. 

Judith {to Anderson). Oh, not before you've had some 
tea. 

Anderson. I shall enjoy it more when I come back, 
dear. {He is about to take up his cloak.) 

Christy. The rain's over. 

Anderson {dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from 
the fender) . Where is your mother, Christy ? 

Christy. At Uncle Titus's. 

Anderson. Have you fetched the doctor? 

Christy. No: she didn't tell me to. 

Anderson. Go on there at once: I'll overtake you on his 



36 The Devil's Disciple Act II 

doorstep. (Christy turns to go.) Wait a moment. Your 
brother must be anxious to know the particulars. 

Richard. Psha! not I: he doesn't know; and I don't care. 
(Violently.) Be off, you oaf. (Christy runs out. Richard 
adds, a little shamefacedly) We shall know soon enough. 

Anderson. Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the 
news myself. Judith: will you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, 
and keep him here until I return ? 

Judith (white and trembling). Must I 

Anderson (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover 
her agitation). My dear: I can depend on you? 

Judith (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust). Yes. 

Anderson (pressing her hand against his cheek). You 
will not mind two old people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (Going.) 
I shall not say good evening: you will be here when I come 
back. (He goes out.) 

They watch him pass the window, and then look at each 
other dumbly, quite disconceHed. . Richard, noting the quiver 
of her lips, is the first to pull himself together. 

Richard. Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the 
nature of your sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude 
on you. Good evening. (Again he starts for the fireplace to 
get his coat.) 

Judith (getting between him and the coat). No, no. Don't 
go: please don't go. 

Richard (roughly). Why? You don't want me here. 

Judith. Yes, I — (wringing her hands in despair) Oh, 
if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me. 

Richard (indignantly). Torment! What right have you 
to say that ? Do you expect me to stay after that ? 

Judith. I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him 
like an angry child) it is not because I like you. 

Richard. Indeed! 

Judith. Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me 
about that. I hate and dread you; and my husband knows 
it. If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe 
that I disobeyed him and drove you away. 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 37 

Richard (ironically). Whereas, of course, you have really 
been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only 
want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh? 

Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into 
tears. 

Richard. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don't do that. 
(Putting his hand to his breast a^ if to a wound.) He wrung 
my heart by being a man. Need you tear it by being a 
woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like him- 
self? (She stops crying, and recovers herself sometchat, look- 
ing at him with a scared curiosity.) There: that's right. 
(Sympathetically.) You're better now, aren't you ? (He puts 
his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises 
haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. He Cd once drops into 
his usual sardonic tone.) Ah, that's better. You are your- 
self again: so is Richard. Well, shall we g6 to tea like a 
quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband's re- 
turn ? 

Judith (rather ashamed of herself). If you please. I — I 
am sorry to have been so foolish. (She stoops to take up the 
plate of toast from the fender.) 

Richard. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am — what 
I am. Allow me. (He takes the plate from her and goes with 
it to the table.) 

Judith (following with the teapot). Will you sit down? 
(He sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. There 
is a plate and knife laid there. The other plate is laid near it; 
bid Judith stays a* the opposite end of the table, next the fire, 
and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) Do 
you take sugar? 

Richard. No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some 
toast. (He puts some on the second plate, and hands it to her, 
with the knife. The action shews quietly how well he knows 
that she has avoided her usual place so a^ to be as far from him 
as possible.) 

Judith (consciously). Thanks. (She gives him his tea.) 
Won't you help yourself? 



38 The Devil's Disciple Act II 

Richard. Thanks. {He puts a piece of toast on his own 
plate; and she pours out tea for herself.) 

Judith {observing tlmt he tastes nothing). Don't you like 
it.'* You are not eating anything. 

Richard. Neither are you. 

Judith {nervously). I never care much for my tea. 
Please don't mind me. 

Richard {looking dreamily round). I am thinking. It is 
all so strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this 
home: I think I have never been more at rest in my life than 
at this moment; and yet I know quite well I could never 
live here. It's not in my nature, I suppose, to be domesti- 
cated. But it's very beautiful: it's almost holy. {He muses 
a moment, and then laugJis softly.) 

Judith {quickly). Why do you laugh? 

Richard. I was thinking that if any stranger came in here 
now, he would take us for man and wife. 

Judith {taking offence). You mean, I suppose, that you 
are more my age than he is. 

Richard {staring at this unexpected turn). I never thought 
of such a thing. {Sardonic again.) I see there is another 
side to domestic joy. 

Judith {angrily). I would rather have a husband whom 
everybody respects than — than 

Richard. Than the devil's disciple. You are right; but 
I daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just as your 
hate helps me to be a bad one. 

Judith. My husband has been very good to you. He 
has forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save you. 
Can you not forgive him for being so much better than you 
are? How dare you belittle him by putting yourself in his 
place ? 

Richard. Did I? 

Judith. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came 
in they would take us for man and — {she stops, terror-stricken, 
as a squad of soldiers tramps past the window) The English 
soldiers! Oh, what do they 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 39 

Richard (listening). Sh! 

A Voice (outside). Halt! Four outside: two in with me. 

Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at 
Richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his 
tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English 
sergeant walks into the room ivith two privates, who post them- 
selves at the door. He comes promptly to the table between 
them. 

The Sergeant. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! 
Anthony Anderson: I arrest you in King George's name as 
a rebel. 

Judith (pointing at Richard). But that is not — (He looks 
up quickly at her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth 
hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and stands 
staring affrightedly .) 

The Sergeant. Come, Parson; put your coat on and come 
along. 

Richard. Yes: I'll come. (He rises and takes a step 
towards his own coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back 
to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room without 
turning his head until he sees Anderson's black coat hanging up 
on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it down; and puts 
it on. The idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he looks 
down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at 
Judith, whose white face shews him that what she is painfully 
struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its 
horror. He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with 
a pair of handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly) Did 
you ever arrest a man of my cloth before, Sergeant? 

The Sergeant (instinctively respectful, half to the black 
coat, half to Richard's good breeding). Well, no sir. At least, 
only an army chaplain. (Shewing the handcuffs.) I'm sorry, 
sir; but duty 

Richard. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of 
them: thank you kindly for the apology. (He holds out his 
hands.) 

Sergeant (not availing himself of the offer). One gentle- 



40 The Devil's Disciple Act II 

man to another, sir. Wouldn't you like to say a word to your 
missis, sir, before you go ? 

Richard {smiling). Oh, we shall meet again before — 
eh ? (Meaning " before you hang me.") 

Sergeant {loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness). Oh, of 
course, of course. No call for the lady to distress herself. 
Still — {in a lower voice, intended for Richard alone) your last 
chance, sir. 

They look at one another significantly for a moment. Then 
Richard exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith. 

Richard {very distinctly). My love. {She looks at him, 
pitiably pale, and tries to answer, but cannot — tries also to come 
to him, but cannot trust herself to stand without the suppoH of 
the table.) This gallant gentleman is good enough to allow 
us a moment of leavetaking. {The sergeant retires delicately 
and joins his men near the door.) He is trying to spare you the 
truth; but you had better know it. Are you listening to me.^^ 
{She signifies assent.) Do you understand that I am going to 
my death ? {She signifies that she understands.) Remember, 
you must find our friend who was with us just now. Do you 
understand ? {She signifies yes.) See that you get him safely 
out of harm's way. Don't for your life let him know of my 
danger; but if he finds it out, tell him that he cannot save me: 
they would hang him; and they would not spare me. And tell 
him that I am steadfast in my religion as he is in his, and 
that he may depend on me to the death. {He turns to go, and 
meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. He 
considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to Judith with 
something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says) 
And now, my dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe 
that you love me like a wife unless you give one kiss before 
I go. 

He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the 
table and almost falls into them. 

Judith {the words choking her). I ought to — it's mur- 
der 

Richard. No: only a kiss {softly to her) for his sake. 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 41 



Judith. I can't. You must- 



' Richard {folding her in his arms with an impulse of com- 
passion for her distress). My poor girl! 

Judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; 
kisses him; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the 
ground as if the kiss had killed her. 

Richard (going quickly to the sergeant). Now, Sergeant: 
quick, before she comes to. The handcuffs. (He puts out hi? 
hands.) 

Sergeant (pocketing them) . Never mind, sir : I'll trust you. 
You're a game one. You ought to a bin a soldier, sir. Be- 
tween them two, please. (The soldiers place themselves one 
before Richard and one behind him. The sergeant opens the 
door.) 

Richard (taking a last look round him). Goodbye, wife: 
goodbye, home. Muffle the drums, and quick march! 

The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They 
file Old quickly. ************5}= 
* When Anderson returns from Mrs. Dudgeon s he is aston- 
ished to find the rooin apparently empty and almost in darkness 
except for the glow from the fire; for one of the candles has burnt 
out, and the other is at its last flicker. 

Anderson. Why, what on earth — ? (Calling) Judith, 
Judith! (He listens: there is no answer.) Hm! (He goes 
to the cupboard; takes a candle from the drawer; lights it at the 
flicker of the expiring one on the table; and looks wonderingly at 
the urdasted meal by its light. Then he sticks it in the candle- 
stick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much puzzled. 
This action causes him to look at the floor for the first time; and 
there he sees Judith lying motionless with her eyes closed. He 
runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head.) Judith. 

Judith (waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of 
exhaustion after suffering) . Yes. Did you call? What's the 
matter ? 

Anderson. I've just come in and found you lying here with 
the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. What 
has happened ? 



42 The Devil's Disciple Act II 

Judith {still astrai/). I don't know. Have I been asleep? 
I suppose — {she stops blankli/) I don't know. 

Anderson {groaning). Heaven forgive me, I left you alone 
with that scoundrel. {Judith remembers. With an agonized 
cry, she clidches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as 
he ri^9es with her. He clasps her tenderly in his arms.) My 
poor pet! 

Judith {frantically clinging to him). What shall I do? 
Oh my God, what shall I do? 

Anderson. Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: 
it was my fault. Come: you're safe now; and you're not hurt, 
are you? {He takes his arms from her to see whether she can 
stand.) There: that's right, that's right. If only you are not 
hurt, nothing else matters. 

Judith. No, no, no: I'm not hurt. 

Anderson. Thank Heaven for that! Come now: {leading 
her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit 
down and rest: you can tell me about it to-morrow. Or {mis- 
understanding her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it wor- 
ries you. There, there! {Cheerfully.) I'll make you some 
fresh tea: that will set you up again. {He goes to the table, and 
empties the teapot into the slop bowl.) 

Judith {in a strained tone). Tony. 

Anderson. Yes, dear ? 

Judith. Do you think we are only in a dream now? 

Anderson {glancing round at her for a moment with a pang 
of an.viety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting 
fresh tea into the pot). Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well 
dream a cup of tea when you're about it. 

Judith. Oh, stop, stop. You don't know — {Distracted 
she buries her face in her knotted hands.) 

Anderson (breaking down and coming to her). My dear, 
what is it? I can't bear it any longer: you must tell me. It 
was all my fault: I was mad to trust him. 

Judith. No: don't say that. You mustn't say that. He 
— oh no, no: I can't. Tony: don't speak tome. Take my 
hands — both my hands. {He takes them, wondering.) Make 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 43 

me think of you, not of him. There's danger, frightful dan- 
ger; but it is your danger; and I can't keep thinking of it: I 
•can't, I can't: my mind goes back to his danger. He must be 
saved — no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (She springs 
up as if to do something or go somewhere, exclaiming) Oh, 
Heaven help me ! 

Anderson {keeping his seat and holding her hands with 
resolute composure). Calmly, calmly, my pet. You're quite 
distracted. 

Judith. I may well be. I don't know what to do. I don't 
know what to do. {Tearing her hands away.) I must save 
him. {Anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the door. 
It is opened in her face by Essie, who hurries in full of anxiety. 
The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith that it brings her to 
her senses. Her tone is sharp and angry as she demands) 
WTiat do you want? 

Essie. I was to come to you. 

Anderson. Who told you to ? 

Essie {staring at him, as if his presence astonished her). 
Are you here ? 

Judith. Of course. Don't be foolish, child. 

Anderson. Gently, dearest: you'll frighten her. {Going 
between them.) Come here, Essie. {She comes to him.) WTio 
sent you ? 

Essie. Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to 
come here at once and do whatever Mrs. Anderson told me. 

Anderson {enlightened). A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! 
They have arrested Richard. {Judith makes a gesture of 
despair.) 

Essie. No. I asked the soldier. Dick's safe. But the 
soldier said you had been taken. 

Anderson. I! {Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an 
explanation.) 

Judith {coaxingly). All right, dear: I understand. {To 
Essie.) Thank you, Essie, for coming; but I don't need you 
now. You may go home. 

Essie {suspicious). Are you sure Dick has not been 



44 The Dcvirs Disciple Act ti 

touched ? Perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the min- 
ister. (Anxioiu'lly.) Mrs. Anderson : do yon think it can have 
been that ? 

Anokksox. Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She 
will learn it from the tirst neighbor slie meets in the street. 
(Judith tunis airatf ami coirn^ her q/t\^ irith her hatuh.) 

Essie (wailing). But what will they do to him ? Oh, what 
will they do to him? AVill they hang liim? (Judith nh udders 
convulsivelij, and throws herself ijito the chair in which Richard 
sat at the tea table.) 

Andeksox {patting Essie^s shoulder atui trying to comfort 
her). I hope not. I hope not. Perhaps if you're very quiet 
and patient, we may be able to help him in some way. 

Essie. Yes — help him — yes. yes. yes. 1*11 be good. 

AxDEKSOX. I must gv> to him at once, Judith. 

Judith (springing up). Oh no. You must go away — far 
away, to some place of siifety. 

AxDEKSox. Pooh! 

Judith (passionateli/). Do you want to kill me.^ Do you 
think I can bear to live for days and days with ever}' knock 
at the door — every footstep — giving me a spasm of terror.^ 
to lie awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread, Hsten- 
ing for them to come and arrest you ? 

AxDKRSOX. Do you think it would be better to know that 
I had run away from my post at the first sign of danger ? 

Judith (bitterly). Oh, you won't go. I know it. You'll 
stay: and I shall gt> mad. 

AxDEKSOX. My dear, your duty 

JuDTTH (fiercely). ^Yhat do I care about my duty? 

AxDERSOX (shocked). Judith! 

Judith. I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. 
My duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to his 
fate. (Essie utters a cry of distre.'fs and sinks on the chair at the 
fire, sobbing silenuy.) My instinct is the same as hers — to 
save him above all things, though it would be so much better 
for him to die! so much greater! But I know you will take 
your own way as he took it. I have no power. (She sits doicn 



Act if The Devil's Disciple 45 

snlUnbj rrrt the railed seat.) I'm only a woman : I can do noth- 
ing but sit here and suffer. Only, tell him I tried U) save you 
— that I did my best to save you. 

ANDf:rtHON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more 
of his ov^'n danger than of mine. 

Jl'dith. SUjp; or I shall hate you. 

Anderhon (remr/ivdratinfj) . Come, come, come! How 
am I to leave you if you talk like this! You are quite out of 
your senses. (lie turna to Ea.ne.) Essie. 

Essie { eagerly riainfj and drying her eyes). Yes? 

Andeiison. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: 
Mrs. Anderson is not well. (Efssie looks drmhtfiA.) Never 
fear: I'll come to you presently; and I'll go to Dick. 

Essie. You are sure you will go to him? (Whispering.) 
You won't let her prevent you? 

Anderson (smiling). No, no: it's all right. All right. 
(She goes.) That's a good girl. (He closes the dfjor, and 
returns to Jwlith.) 

Judith (seated — rigid). You are going to your death. 

Anderson (quaintly). Then I shall go in my best coat, 
dear. (He turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.) 
Where — ? (He stares at the empty nail for a moment; then 
looks quickly round to the fire; strides a^yro.^s to it; and lifts 
Richard's coat.) ^Vhy, my dear, it seems that he has gone in 
my best coat. 

Judith (still motiordes.'i) . Yes. 

Anderkon. Did the soldiers make a mistake? 

Judith. Yes: they made a mistake. 

Anderson. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he 
was too upset, I suppose. 

Judith. Yes: he might have told them. So might I. 

Anderson. Well, it's all very puzzling — almost funny. 
It's curious how these little things strike us even in the most — 
(he breaks off and begins piAting on Richard's coat) I'd bet- 
ter take him his own coat. I know what he'll say — (imitating 
Richard's sardonic manner) "Anxious about my soul, Pas- 
tor, and also about your best coat." Eh ? 



46 The Devil's Disciple Act II 

Judith. Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (Va- 
cantly.) It doesn't matter: I shall never see either of you 
again. 

Anderson {rallying her). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (He &its 
doivn beside her.) Is this how you keep your promise that I 
shan't be ashamed of my brave wife ? 

Judith. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my 
promises to him : why should I keep my promises to you ? 

Anderson. Don't speak so strangely, my love. It sounds 
insincere to me. (She looks umdterable reproach at him .) Yes, 
dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking 
nonsense. Just nonsense. (Her face darkeiis into dumb ob- 
stinacy. She stares straight before her, and does not look at him 
again, absorbed in Richard\^ fate. He scans her face; sees that 
his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making no 
further effort to conceal his anxiety.) I wish I knew what has 
frightened you so. Was there a struggle ? Did he fight ? 

Judith. No. He smiled. 

Anderson. Did he realise his danger, do you think? 

Judith. He reaHsed yours. 

Anderson. Mine! 

Judith (monotonously). He said, "See that you get him 
safely out of harm's way." I promised: I can't keep my 
promise. He said, "Don't for your life let him know of my 
danger." I've told you of it. He said that if you found it out, 
you could not save him— that they vnW hang him and not spare 
you. 

Anderson (rising in generous indignation). And you think 
that I will let a man with that much good in him die like a dog, 
when a few words might make him die like a Christian ? I'm 
ashamed of you, Judith. 

Judith. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are 
in yours; and you may depend on him to the death. He 
said so. 

Anderson. God forgive him! What else did he say ? 

Judith. He said goodbye. 

Anderson (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern). 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 47 

Poor fellow, poor fellow! You said goodbye to him in all 
kindness and charity, Judith, I hope. 

Judith. I kissed him. 

Anderson. What! Judith! 

Judith. Are you angry.'* 

Anderson. No, no. You were right: you were right. 
Poor fellow, poor fellow! {Greatly distressed.) To be hanged 
like that at his age! And then did they take him away ? 

Judith {wearily). Then you were here: that's the next 
thing I remember. I suppose I fainted. Now bid me good- 
bye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint again. I wish I could die. 

Anderson. No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself to- 
gether and be sensible. I am in no danger — not the least in 
the world. 

Judith {solemnly). You are going to your death, Tony — 
your sure death, if God will let innocent men be murdered. 
They will not let you see him : they will arrest you the moment 
you give your name. It was for you the soldiers came. 

Anderson {thunderstruck). For me!!! {His fists clinch; 
his neck thickens; his face reddens; the fles-hy purses under his 
eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes, 
transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. Still, 
she does not come out of her absorption to look at him: her eyes 
are steadfa.st with a mechanical reflection of Richard's stead- 
fastness.) 

Judith. He took your place : he is dying to save you. That 
is why he went in your coat. That is why I kissed him. 

Anderson {exploding). Blood an' owns! {His voice is 
rough and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.) Here! 
Essie, Essie! 

Essie {running in). Yes. 
p ANT>E,Rsoy; {impetuousbj) . Off with you as hard as you can 
run, to the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest 
horse they have {Judith rises breathless, and stares at him in- 
credulously) — the chestnut mare, if she's fresh — without a 
moment's delay. Go into the stable yard and tell the black 
man there that I'll give him a silver dollar if the horse is waiting 



48 The DeviFs Disciple Act II 

for me when I come, and that I am close on your heels. Away 
with yon. {II is energy scmh E.s'i<ie flying from the room. He 
pounces on hh riding boots: rnshcs with them to the chair at the 
fire; ajid begins ptdling them on.) 

Judith {imable to believe such a thing of him). Yon are not 
going to him ! 

Andekson {busy with the boots). Going to him I What 
good would that do.' {Growling to himself as he gets the first 
boot on with a wrench) I'll go to them, so I will. {To Judith 
peremptorily) Get me the pistols: I want tliem. And money, 
money: I want money — all the money in the house. {He 
stoops over the other boot, grumbling) A great satisfaction it 
would be to him to have my company on the gallows. {He 
pulls on the boot.) 

Judith. You are deserting liim, then? 

Anderson. Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the 
pistols. {She goes to the press and takes from it a leather belt 
%e{th two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets attached to 
it. She throws it on the table. Then she unlocks a drawer in 
the press and takes out a purse. Anderson grabs the belt and 
buckles it on, saying) If they took him for me in my coat, 
perhaps they'll take me for him in his. {Hitching the belt into 
its place) Do I look like him ? 

Judith {turning with the purse in her hand). Horribly un- 
like him. 

AxDEKsox {snatching the purse from her and emptying it on 
the table). Hm! We shall see. 

Judith {sitting down helplessly). Is it of any use to pray, 
do you think, Tony ? 

Andekson {counting the money). Pray! Can we pray 
Swindon's rope off Richard's neck ? 

Judith. God may soften Major Swindon's heart. 

Anderson {contemptuously — pocketing a handful of money). 
Let him, then. I am not God; and I must go to work another 
way. {Judith gasps cd the llasphcn:y. lie throws the purse 
on the table.) Keep that. I've taken '25 dollars. 

Judith. Have you forgotten even that you are a minister? 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 49 

Andkrson. Minister be— faugh! My hat: where's my 
liat? {He finaichcH up hat and cloak, and puts both on in hot 
hade.) Now listen, you. If you can get a word wil}) him by 
[>retending you're his wife, tell him to hold his tcviigue until 
inoniing: that will give me all the start I need. 

Judith (.wlemnly) . You may de};(;nd on him to the death. 

Andeiison. You're a fool, a iVjol, Judith (for a nurment 
checkimj the torrent of his haste, and ajjeakimj v/dh .loniething 
of hi.^ old (piiet and impressive convidum) . You don't know 
tlie man you're married to. (Essie returns. He su)Oops at her 
at once.) Well : is the horse ready ? 

Essie {breathless). It will be ready when you come. 

Andj:kson. Good. {He makes for the door.) 

Judith {rising and stretching out her arms after him invol- 
untarily). Won't you say goodbye? 

Andursox. And waste another half minute! Psha! {He 
rushes out like an avalanche.) 

KssiE {hurrying to Judith). He has gone to save Richard, 
hasn't he.'' 

Judith. To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. 
He has gone to save himself. Richard must die. 

Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her 
face. Judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly straight in 
front of her, at the vision of Richard, dying. 

END OF ACT II. 



ACT III 

Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters 
in the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled 
waiting room, and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad 
night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality of 
the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments when her 
attention is not strongly held. 

The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is 
sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine 
figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his ranky he feels 
specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her. 

Sergeant. You can have a quiet v/ord with him here, 
mum. 

Judith. Shall I have long to wait ? 

Sergeant. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the 
Bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought over here 
for the court martial. Don't fret, mum: he slep like a child, 
and has made a rare good breakfast. 

Judith {incredulously). He is in good spirits! 

Sergeant. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see 
him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil 
five. He spent it among us like the gentleman he is. Duty's 
duty, mum, of course; but you're among friends here. {The 
tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approaching.) There: I 
think he's coming. {Richard comes in, without a sign of care 
or captivity in his bearing. The sergeant nods to the two sol- 
diers, and shews them the key of the room in his hand. They 
withdraw.) Your good lady, sir. 

Richard {going to her). What! My wife. My adored 
one. {He takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish 

50 



Act III The Devil*s Diciple 51 

gallantry.) How long do you allow a brokenliearted husband 
for leave-taking, Sergeant? 

Sergeant. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb 
you till the court sits. 

Richard. But it has struck the hour. 

Sergeant. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General 
Burgoyne's just arrived — Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, 
sir — and he w on't have done finding fault with everything this 
side of half past. I know him, sir: I served with him in Por- 
tugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir; and by your 
leave I won't waste any more of them. (He goes out, locking 
the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and 
turns to Judith ivith considerate sincerity.) 

Richard. Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. 
And how are you after last night.? I had to leave you before 
you recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and look after 
you. Did she understand the message? 

Judith {breathless and urgent). Oh, don't think of me: I 
haven't come here to talk about myself. Are they going to — 
to — {meaning ^'to hang you") ? 

Richard {ivhimsically). At noon, punctually. At least, 
that was when they disposed of Uncle Peter. {She shudders.) 
Is your husband safe ? Is he on the wing ? 

Judith. He is no longer my husband. 

Richard {opening his eyes wide). Eh! 

Judith. I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I ex- 
pected him to come here and save you. I wanted him to come 
here and save you. He ran away instead. 

Richard. Well, that's what I meant him to do. What 
good would his staying have done ? They'd only have hanged 
us both. 

Judith {with reproachful earnestness). Richard Dudgeon: 
on your honour, what would you have done in his place ? 

Richard. Exactly what he has done, of course. 

Judith. Oh. why will you not be simple with me — honest 
and straightforward? If you are so selfish as that, why did 
you let them take you last night? 



52 The Devils Disciple Act III 

RiCii.VHn (ijaili/). U|HHi my lil'o, ^[rs. Aiulorson. I don't 
kmnv. I've boon asking niysolf tlial cijuoslion ovor since: and 
i can find no manner of reason for acting- as I did. 

JuniTH. YiMi know yon did it for his sake, believing he 
was a more worthy man than yourself. 

RicH.VKD (laughing). Oho! No: that's a very pretty 
reason, I must say: but I'm not so modest as that. No: it 
wasn't for his sake. 

Jinrni (affrr a paiL-^r, (htn')uj irhicJi .^'hc looks shamcfaccdli/ 
of In'm, blushing painfull if). AVas it for my sake? 

IxicuMxH (galhvttli/). Well, you had a hand in it. It must 
have boon a little for your sake. You let them take me, at all 
events. 

JrniTH. Oh, do you think I have not been toUino- myself 
that all night? Your death will be at my door. (Impulsiveli/, 
she gircs him Jur hand, and adds, with intense earnestness) 
If I could save you as you saveil him, I would do it, no matter 
how cruel the ileath was. 

KicuAKo {holding her liand and smiling, hid keeping her 
almost at arm\s length). I am very sure I shouldn't let you. 

Judith.. Don't you see that I can save you? 

RicnAKD. How? By changing clothes with me, eh? 

Judith (disetigaging her Jiaiul to toueh Jii.s lips with it). 
Don't (meaning 'Don't jest""). No: by telhng the Court 
who you really are. 

RioHAKD (frowning). No use: they wouldn't spare me: 
and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. They tvre 
determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on 
that gallows to-day. Well, lot us cow them by showing that we 
can stand by one anotlur to the death. That is the only force 
that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make 
America a nation. 

Judith (impatientlg). Oh, what does all that matter? 

Richard (laughing). True: what does it matter? what 
does anything matter? You see, men have tliese strange 
notions. ^Irs. Anderson: and women see the folly of them. 

Judith. Women have to lose those they love through them. 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 53 

Richard. They can easily get fresh lovers. 

Judith (revolted). Oh! (Vehemently) Do you realise 
that you are going to kill yourself? 

Richard. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. 
Anderson. Don't be concerned: no woman will lose her lover 
through my death. (Smiling) Bless you, nobody cares for 
me. Have you heard that my mother is dead? 

Judith. Dead! 

Richard. Of heart disease — in the night. Her last word 
to me was her curse: I don't think I could have borne her 
blessing. My other relatives will not grieve much on my ac- 
count. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I have provided 
for her: I made my own will last night. 

Judith (stonily, after a TnomenVs silence). And I! 

Richard (surf vised) . You? 

Judith, Yes, I. Am I not to care at all ? 

Richard (gaily and bluntly). Not a scrap. Oh, you ex- 
pressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. 
Wliat happened may have softened you for the moment; but 
believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don't hke a bone in my skin 
or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance at 12 to- 
day as I should have been at 12 yesterday. 

Judith (her voice trembling). What can I do to shew you 
that you are mistaken ? 

Richard. Don't trouble. I'll give you credit for liking me 
a little better than you did. All I say is that my death will not 
break your heart. 

Judith (almost in a whisper). How do you know? (She 
puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.) 

Richard (amazed — divining the truth). Mrs. Anderson!!! 
(The bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. He collects him- 
self, and removes her hands, saying rather coldly) Excuse me: 
they will be here for me presently. It is too late. 

Judith. It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will 
never kill you when they know how heroically you have acted. 

Richard (with some scorn). Indeed! But if I don't go 
through with it, where will the heroism be? I shall simply 



54 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

have tricked them; and they'll hang me for that hke a dog. 
Serve me right too! 

Judith {icildhj). Oh, I believe you w a n t to die. 

Richard {obstinately). No I don't. 

Judith. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore 
you — listen. You said just now that you saved him for my 
sake — ^yes (clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of denial) 
a little for my sake. Well, save yourself for my sake. And I 
will go with you to the end of the worid. 

Richard {taking her by the icrists and holding her a little way 
from him, looking steadily at her). Judith. 

Judith {breathless — delighted at the name). Yes. 

Richard. If I said — to please you — that I did what I did 
ever so little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to women. 
You know how much I have lived with worthless men — aye, 
and worthless women too. Well, they could all rise to some 
sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love. ( The word 
love comes from him with true Puritan scorji.) That has taught 
me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out 
red hot. What I did last night, I did in cold blood, caring not 
half so much for your husband, or (ruthlessly) for you (she 
droops, stricken) as I do for myself. I had no motive and no 
interest: all I can tell you is that when it came to the point 
whether I would take my neck out of the noose and put an- 
other man's into it, I could not do it. I don't know why not: 
I see myself as a fool for my pains ; but I could not and I can- 
not. I have been brought up standing by the law of my own 
nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. 
(She has slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him.) 
I should have done the same for any other man in the town, or 
any other man's wife. (Releasing her.) Do you understand 
that? 

Judith. Yes: you mean that you do not love me. 

Richard (revolted — with fierce contempt). Is that all it 
means to you ? 

Judith. What more — what worse — can it mean to me? 
(The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 55 

heart.) Oh, one moment more. {She throws herself on her 
knees.) I pray to you 

Richard. Hush! (Ca//m^) Come in. (The sergeant un- 
locks the door and opens it. The guard is with him.) 

Sergeant (coming in). Time's up, sir. 

Richard. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (He 
attempts to raise her.) 

Judith (clinging to him) . Only one thing more — I entreat, 
I implore you. Let me be present in the court. I have seen 
Major Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you asked it. 
You will ask it. It is my last request: I shall never ask you 
anything again. (She clasps his knee.) I beg and pray it 
of you. 

Richard. If I do, will you be silent? 

Judith. Yes. 

Richard. You will keep faith ? 

Judith. I will keep — (She breaks down, sobbing.) 

Richard (taking her arm to lift her). Just — her other 
arm. Sergeant. 

They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two 
men. 

Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court 
martial. It is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the 
middle under a tall canopy with a gilt croicn, and maroon cur- 
tains loith the royal monogram G. R. In front of the chair is 
a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, 
and writing materials on it. Several chairs are set at the table. 
The door is at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of 
state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major 
Stvindon, a pale, sandy haired, very conscientious looking man 
of about 45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, 
writing. He is alone until the sergeant announces the General 
in a subdued manner which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny 
has been making his presence felt rather heavily. 

Sergeant. The General, sir. 

Swindon rises hastily. The General comes m. the sergeant 
goes out. General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. 



56 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

He is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a dis- 
tinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write 
successful comedies, aristocratically-connected enough to have 
had opportunities of high military distinction. His eyes, large, 
brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remark- 
able feature: without them his fine nose and small mouth woidd 
suggest rather more fastidiousness and less force than go to 
the making of a first rate geiieral. Just now the eyes are angry 
and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense. 

BuKGOYNE. Major Swindon, I presume. 

Swindon. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. 
{They bow to one another ceremoniously.) I am glad to have 
the support of your presence this morning. It is not particu- 
larly lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister. 

Burgoyne {throwing himself into Swindon s chair). No, 
sir, it is not. It is making too much of the fellow to execute 
him: what more could you have done if he had been a member 
of the Church of England? Martyrdom, sir, is what these 
people like: it is the only way in which a man can become 
famous without ability. However, you have committed us to 
hanging him : and the sooner he is hanged the better. 

Swindon. We have arranged it for 12 o'clock. Nothing 
remains to be done except to try him. 

Burgoyne {looking at him with suppressed anger). Noth- 
ing — except to save our own necks, perhaps. Have you heard 
the news from Springtown? 

Swindon. Nothing special. The latest reports are sat- 
isfactory. 

Burgoyne {rising in amazement). Satisfactory, sir! Sat- 
isfactory ! ! {He stares at him for a moment, and then adds, with 
grim intensity) I am glad you take that view of them. 

Swindon {puzzled). Do I understand that in your opin- 
ion 

Burgoyne. I do not express my opinion. I never stoop 
to that habit of profane language which unfortunately coarsens 
our profession. If I did, sir, perhaps I should be able t<^ ex- 
press my opinion of the news from Springtown — the newa 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 57 

which you {severely) have apparently not heard. How 
soon do you get news from your supports here ?^n the course 
of a month, eh? 

Swindon {turning sidky). I suppose the reports have 
been taken to you, sir, instead of to me. Is there anything 
serious ? 

BuRGOYNE {taking a report from his pocket and holding it 
up). Springtown's in the hands of the rebels. {He throws the 
report on the table.) 

Swindon {aghast). Since yesterday! 

BuRGOYNE. Since two o'clock this morning. Perhaps 
w e shall be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow morn- 
ing. Have you thought of that .'' 

Swindon {confidently). As to that. General, the British 
soldier will give a good account of himself. 

BuRGOYNE {bitterly). And therefore, I suppose, sir, the 
British officer need not know his business: the British soldier 
will get him out of all his blunders with the bayonet. In 
future, sir, I must ask you to be a little less generous with the 
blood of your men, and a little more generous with your own 
brains. 

Swindon. I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intellectual 
eminence, sir. I can only do my best, and rely on the devotion 
of my countrymen. 

BuRGOYNE {suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic). May I 
ask are you writing a melodrama, Major Swindon ? 

Swindon {flushing). No, sir. 

BuRGOYNE. What a pity! What a pity! {Dropping his 
sarcastic tone and facing him suddenly and seriously) Do you 
at all realize, sir, that wo have nothing standing between us 
and destruction but our own bluff and the sheepishness of 
these colonists? They are men of the same English stock as 
ourselves: six to one of us {repeating it emphatically), six to 
one, sir; and nearly half our troops are Hessians, Brunswick- 
ers, German dragoons, and Indians with scalping knives. 
These are the countrymen on whose devotion you rely! Sup- 
pose the colonists find a leader! Suppose the news from 



58 The Devirs Disciple Act III 

Sprkigtown should turn out to mean that they have already 
found a leader! What shall we do then? Eh? 

Swindon {sullenly). Our duty, sir, I presume. 

BuRGOYNE {again sarcastic — giving him np as a foot). 
Quite so, quite so. Thank you. Major Swindon, thank you. 
Now you've settled the question, sir — thrown a flood of light 
on the situation. What a comfort to me to feel that I have at 
my side so devoted and able an officer to support me in this 
emergency! I think, sir, it will probably relieve both our 
feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further 
delay {he strikes the bell), especially as I am debarred by my 
principles from the customary military vent for my feelings. 
(The sergeant appears.) Bring your man in. 

Sergeant. Yes, sir. 

BuRGOYNE. And mention to any officer you may meet 
that the court cannot wait any longer for him. 

Swindon {keeping his temper with difficulty). The staff is 
perfectly ready, sir. They have been waiting your conven- 
ience for fully half an hour. Perfectly ready, sir. 

BuRGOYNE {blandly). So am I. {Several officers come in 
and take their seats. One of them sits at the end of the table 
furthest from the door, and acts throughout as clerk to the courty 
making notes of the proceedings. The uniforms are those of 
the 9th, 20th, 2lst, Uth, ^7ih, 53rd, and mnd British Infantry. 
One officer is a Major General of the Royal Artillery. There 
are also German officers of the Hessian Rifles, and of German 
dragoon and Brunswicker regiments.) Oh, good morning, 
gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you, I am sure. Very good of 
you to spare us a few moments, 

Swindon. Will you preside, sir? 

BuRGOYNE {becoming additionally polished, lofty, sarcastic 
and urbane now that he is in public). No, sir: I feel my own 
deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. If you will kindly 
allow me, I will sit at the feet of Gamaliel. {He takes the 
chair at the end of the table next the door, and motions Swindon 
to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated before sitting 
down himself.) 



Act III The Devirs Disciple 59 

• Swindon {greatly annoyed). As you please, sir. I am onlv 
trying to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances. 
{He takes his 'place in the chair of state.) 

BurgoynCy relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, 
sits down and begins to read the report with knitted hrows and 
careworn looks, reflecting on his desperate situation and Swin- 
don's uselessness. Richard is brought in. Judith walks be- 
side him. Two soldiers precede and two follow him, with the 
sergeant in command. They cross the room to the wall opposite 
the door; but when Richard has just passed before the chair of 
state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and posts 
himself behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at 
the wall. The four soldiers place themselves in a squad near 
her. 

BuRGOYNE {looking up and seeing Judith). Who is that 
woman ? 

Sergeant. Prisoner's wife, sir. 

Swindon {nervously). She begged me to allow her to be 
present ; and I thought 

BuRGOYNE {completing the sentence for him ironically) . You 
thought it would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. 
{Blandly) Give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly 
comfortable. 

The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard. 

Judith. Thank you, sir. {She sits down after an awe- 
stricken curtsy to Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a digni- 
fied bend of his head.) 

Swindon {to Richard, sharply). Your name, sir? 

Richard {affable, but obstinate). Come: you don't mean 
to say that you've brought me here without knowing who 
I am? 

Swindon. As a matter of form, sir, give your name. 

Richard. As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony 
Anderson, Presbyterian minister in this town. 

Burgoyne {interested). Indeed! Pray, Mr. Anderson, 
what do you gentlemen believe ? 

Richard. I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. 



60 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

I cannot undertake to complete your conversion in less than 
a fortnight. 

Swindon {snvhbing him). We are not here to discuss your 
views. 

BuRGOYNE {^vith an elaborate hoio to the unfortunate Swin- 
don). I stand rebuked. 

Swindon (embarrassed). Oh, not you, I as • 

BuRGOYNE. Don't mention it. (To Richard, very politely) 
Any political views, Mr. Anderson ? 

Richard. I understand that that is just what we are here to 
find out. 

Swindon (severely). Do you mean to deny that you are a 
rebel ? 

Richard. I am an American, sir. 

Swindon. What do you expect me to think of that speech, 
Mr. Anderson ? 

Richard. I never expect a soldier to think, sir. 

Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost 
reconciles him to the loss of America. 

Swindon (ivhitening with anger). I advise you not to be 
insolent, prisoner. 

Richard. You can't help yourself. General. When you 
make up your mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a dis- 
advantage with him. Why should I be civil to you ? I may 
as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. 

Swindon. You have no right to assume that the court has 
made up its mind without a fair trial. And you will please 
not address me as General. I am Major Swindon. 

Richard. A thousand pardons. I thought I had the 
honor of addressing Gentlemanly Johnny. 

Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow 
escape from a guffaw. 

Burgoyne {with extreme s^iavity). I believe I am Gentle- 
manly Johnny, sir, at your service. My more intimate 
friends call me General Burgoyne. (Richard bows with per- 
fect politeness.) You will understand, sir, I hope, since you 
seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in spite of 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 61 

your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang you, 
we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and 
military duty, without any personal ill-feeling. 

Richard. Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference in 
the world, of course. 

They all smile in spite of themselves; and some of the younger 
officers hurst out laughing. 

Judith {her dread and horror deepening at every one of these 
jests and compliments). How can you? 

Richard. You promised to be silent. 

BuRGOYNE (to Judith, ivith studied courtesy). Believe me, 
madam, your husband is placing us under the greatest obhga- 
tion by taking this very disagreeable business so thoroughly 
in the spirit of a gentleman. Sergeant : give Mr. Anderson a 
chair. (The sergeant does so. Richard sits down.) Now, 
Major Swindon: we are waiting for you. 

Swindon. You are aware, I presume, Mr. Anderson, of 
your obhgations as a subject of His Majesty King George the 
Third. 

Richard. I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George 
the Third is about to hang me because I object to Lord North's 
robbing me. 

Swindon. That is a treasonable speech, sir. 

HiCHARj) (briefly). Yes. I meant it to be. 

Burgoyne (strongly deprecating this line of defence, but 
still polite). Don't you think, Mr. Anderson, that this is 
rather — if you will excuse the word — a vulgar line to take? 
Why should you cry out robbery because of a stamp duty and 
a tea duty and so forth ? After all, it is the essence of your 
position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace. 

Richard. It is not the money. General. But to be swin- 
dled by a pig-headed lunatic like King George 

Swindon (scandalised). Chut, sir — silence! 

Sergeant (in stentorian tones, greatly shocked). Silence! 

Burgoyne (unruffled). Ah, that is another point of view. 
My position does not allow of my going into that, except in 
private. But (shrugging his shoulders) of course, Mr. Ander- 



62 The Devil's Disciple Act ill 

son, if you are determined to be hanged (Judith flinches), 
there's nothing more to be said. An unusual taste! however 
{with a fined shrug) ! 

Swindon (to Burgoyne). Shall we call witnesses? 

Richard. What need is there of witnesses ? If the tow ns- 
people here had listened to me, you would have found the 
streets barricaded, the houses loopholed, and the people in 
arms to hold the town against you to the last man. But you 
arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the talking 
stage; and then it was too late. 

Swindon (severely). Well, sir, we shall teach you and your 
townspeople a lesson they will not forget. Have you anything 
more to say? 

Richard. I think you might have the decency to treat 
me as a prisoner of war, and shoot me Hke a man instead of 
hanging me like a dog. 

Burgoyne (sympathetically). Now there, Mr. Anderson, 
you talk like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. Have 
you any idea of the average marksmanship of the army of 
His Majesty King George the Third? If we make you 
up a firing party, what will happen? Half of them will 
miss you: the rest will make a mess of the business and 
leave you to the provo-marshal's pistol. Whereas we can 
hang you in a perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. 
(Kindly) Let me persuade you to be hanged, Mr. Anderson? 

Judith (sick with horror). My God! 

Richard (to Judith). Your promise! (To Burgoyne) 
Thank you. General: that view of the case did not occur to 
me before. To obhge you, I withdraw my objection to the 
rope. Hang me, by all means. 

Burgoyne (smoothly). Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr. 
Anderson ? 

Richard. I shall be at your disposal then. General. 

Burgoyne (rising). Nothing more to be said, gentlemen. 
(They all rise.) 

Judith (rmhing to the table). Oh, you are not going to 
murder a man hke that, without a proper trial — without 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 63 

thinking of what you are doing — without — (She cannot find 
words.) 

Richard. Is this how you keep your promise? 

Judith. If I am not to, speak, you must. Defend your- 
self: save yourself: tell them the truth. 

Richard (loorriedly). I have told them truth enough to 
hang me ten times over. If you say another word you will 
risk other lives; but you will not save mine. 

BuRGOYNE. My good lady, our only desire is to save un- 
pleasantness. What satisfaction would it give you to have 
a solemn fuss made, with my friend Swindon in a black cap 
and so forth? I am sure we are greatly indebted to the 
admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shewn by your hus- 
band. 

Judith (throiving the words in his face). Oh, you are 
mad. Is it nothing to you what wicked thing you do if only 
you do it like a gentleman? Is it nothing to you whether 
you are a murderer or not, if only you murder in a red coat? 
(Desperately) You shall not hang him: that man is not my 
husband. 

The officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the 
Germans ashing their neighbors to explain what the ivoman 
has said. Burgoyne, who has been visibly shaken by Judith's 
reproach, recovers himself promptly at this new development. 
Richard meanichile raises his voice above the buzz. 

Richard. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to 
this. She will not believe that she cannot save me. Break 
up the court. 

Burgoyne (in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores 
silence at once) . One moment, Mr. Anderson. One moment, 
gentlemen. (He resumes his seat. Swindon and the officers 
follow his example.) Let me understand you clearly, madam. 
Do you mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or 
merely — I wish to put this w^ith all delicacy — that you are not 
his wife ? 

Judith. I don't know what you mean. I say that he is 
not my husband — that my husband has escaped. This man 



64 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

took his place to save him. Ask anyone in the town — send 
out into the street for the first person you find there, and 
bring him in as a witness. He will tell you that the prisoner 
is not Anthony Anderson. 

BuRGOYNE {quietly, as before). Sergeant. 

Sergeant. Yes sir. 

BuRGOYNE. Go out iuto the street and bring in the first 
townsman you see there. 

Sergeant {making for the door). Yes sir. 

BuRGOYNE {as the sergeant passes). The first clean, sober 
townsman you see. 

Sergeant. Yes sir. {He goes out.) 

BuRGOYNE. Sit down, Mr. Anderson — if I may call you 
so for the present. {Richard sits doivn.) Sit down, madam, 
whilst we wait. Give the lady a newspaper. 

Richard {indignantly). Shame! 

BuRGOYNE {keenly, with a half smile). If you are not her 
husband, sir, the case is not a serious one— for her. {Richard 
bites his lip, silenced.) 

Judith {to Richard, as she returns to her seat). 1 couldn't 
help it. {He shakes his head. She sits down.) 

BuRGOYNE. You wiU understand of course, Mr. Ander- 
son, that you must not build on this little incident. We are 
bound to make an example of somebody. 

Richard. I quite understand. I suppose there's no use 
in my explaining. 

BuRGOYNE. I think we should prefer independent testi- 
mony, if you don't mind. 

The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns 
conducting Christy, who is much scared. 

Sergeant {giving Burgoyne the packet). Dispatches, sir. 
Delivered by a corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard 
riding, sir. 

Burgoijne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes 
absorbed in them. They are so serious as to take his attention 
completely from the court martial. 

Sergeant {to Christy). Now then. Attention; and take 



Act III The Devils Disciple 65 

your hat off. {He posts himself in charge of Christy, who 
stands on Burgoyne's side of the court.) 

Richard (in his usual bullying tone to Christy). Don't be 
frightened, you fool : you're only wanted as a witness. They're 
not going to hang you. 

Swindon. "What's your name? 

Christy. Christy. 

Richard (impatiently) . Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant 
idiot. Give your full name. 

Swindon. Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt 
the witness. 

Richard. Very well. But I warn you you'll get nothing 
out of him unless you shake it out of him. He has been too 
well brought up by a pious mother to have any sense or man- 
hood left in him. 

Burgoyne (springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a 
startling voice). Where is the man who brought these? 

Sergeant. In the guard-room, sir. 

Burgoyne goes out ivith a haste that sets the officers ex- 
changing looks. 

Swindon (to Christy). Do you know Anthony Anderson, 
the Presbyterian minister? 

Christy. Of course I do. (Implying that Swindon must be 
an ass not to knoiv it.) 

Swindon. Is he here ? 

Christy (staring round). 1 don't know. 

Swindon. Do you see him ? 

Christy. No. 

Swindon. You seem to know the prisoner? 

Christy. Do you mean Dick? 

Swindon. Which is Dick ? 

Christy (pointing to Richard). Him. 

Swindon. What is his name ? 

Christy. Dick. 

Richard. Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What 
do they know about Dick ? 

Christy. Well,you are Dick, ain't you? What am I to say ? 



66 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

Swindon. Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be 
silent. Tell us who the prisoner is. 

Christy. He's my brother Dick — Richard — Richard 
Dudgeon. 

Swindon. Your brother! 

Christy. Yes. 

Swindon. You are sure he is not Anderson. 

Christy. Who ? 

Richard (exasperatedly) . Me, me, me, you 

Swindon. Silence, sir. 

Sergeant (shouting). Silence. " 

Richard {impatienthj) . Yah! (To Christy) He wants 
to know am I Minister Anderson. Tell him, and stop grin- 
ning like a zany. 

Christy (grinning more than ever) . You Pastor Anderson ! 
(To Swindon) Why, Mr. Anderson's a minister — a very 
good man; and Dick's a bad character: the respectable 
people won't speak to him. He's the bad brother: I'm the 
good one. (The officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin.) 

Swindon. Who arrested this man? 

Sergeant. I did, sir. I found him in the minister's 
house, sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite at 
home. If he isn't married to her, he ought to be. 

Swindon. Did he answer to the minister's name? 

Sergeant. Yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. You 
ask the chaplain, sir. 

Swindon (to Richard, threateningly). So, sir, you have 
attempted to cheat us. And your name is Richard Dudgeon ? 

R1CHA.RD. You've found it out at last, have you ? 

Swindon. Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh? 

Richard. Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, 
was my uncle. 

Swindon. Hm! (He compresses his lips, and looks at 
Richard with vindictive gravity.) 

Christy. Are they going to hang you, Dick? 

Richard. Yes. Get out: they've done with you. 

Christy. And I may keep the china peacocks? 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 67 

R];cHARD (jumping up). Get out. Get out, you blither- 
ing baboon, you. (Christy flies, panicstricken.) 

Swindon (rising — all rise). Since you have taken the 
minister's place, Richard Dudgeon, you shall go through 
with it. The execution will take place at 12 o'clock as 
arranged; and unless Anderson surrenders before then you 
shall take his place on the gallows. Sergeant: take your man 
out. 

Judith (distracted). No, no 

Swindon (flercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties). 
Take that woman away. 

Richard (springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, 
and seizing Swindon by the throat). You infernal scoun- 
drel 

The sergea7it rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers 
from the other. They seize Richard and drag him back to his 
place. Swindon, who has been thrown supine on the table, 
rises, arrariging his stock. He is about to speak, ivhen he is 
anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just appeared at the door 
with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a blue dispatch. 

Burgoyne (advancing to the table, elaborately cool). What 
is this? What's happening? Mr. Anderson: I'm astonished 
at you. 

Richard. I am sorry I disturbed you. General. I merely 
wanted to strangle your understrapper there. (Breaking out 
violently at Swindon) Why do you raise the devil in me by 
bullying the woman like that? You oatmeal faced dog, I'd 
twist your cursed head off with the greatest satisfaction. (He 
puts out his hands to the sergeant) Here: handcuff me, will 
you; or I'll not undertake to keep my fingers off him. 

The sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to 
Burgoyne for instructions. 

Burgoyne. Have you addressed profane language to the 
lady, Major Swindon? 

Swindon (very angry). No, sir, certainly not. That 
question should not have been put to me. I ordered the 
woman to be removed, as she was disorderly; and the fellow 



68 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am perfectly 
able to take care of myself. 

Richard. Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel 
with you. 

BuRGOYNE. Mr. Anderson 

Swindon. His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. 
He is an impostor. 

BuRGOYNE {hrusquely). Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dud- 
geon at Springtown. 

Richard. It was my uncle, General. 

BuRGOYNE. Oh, your uncle. {To Sivindon, handsomely) 
I beg your pardon. Major Swindon. (Swindon acknowledges 
the apology stiffly. Burgoyne turns to Richard) We are 
somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your family. 
Well, Mr. Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this: Who 
is {reading the name from the letter) William Maindeck Par- 
shotter ? 

Richard. He is the Mayor of Springtown. 

BuRGOYNE. Is WiUiam — Maindeck and so on — a man 
of his word? 

Richard. Is he selling you anything? 

Burgoyne. No. 

Richard. Then you may depend on him. 

Burgoyne. Thank you, Mr. — 'm Dudgeon. By the 
way, since you are not Mr. Anderson, do we still — eh. Major 
Swindon? {meaning "do ice still hang him?") 

Richard. The arrangements are unaltered. General. 

Burgoyne. Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, 
Mr. Dudgeon. Good morning, madam. 

Richard {interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is 
about to make some ivild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely). 
Not one word more. Come. 

She looks imploringly at him, hut is overborne by his deter- 
mination. They are marched out by the four soldiers: the 
sergeant, very sulky, walking between Swindon and Richard^ 
ivhom he icatches as if he were a dangerous animal. 

Burgoyne. Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 69 

Swindon: a word with you. {The officers go out. Burgoyne 
waits with unruffled serenity until the last of them disappears. 
Then he becomes very grave, and addresses Swindon for the 
first time without his title.) Swindon: do you know what 
this is {shewing him the letter) ? 

Swindon. What ? 

Burgoyne. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of 
their militia to come here and arrange terms with us. 

Swindon. Oh, they are gi^^ng in. 

Burgoyne. They add that they are sending the man who 
raised Springtown last night and drove us out; so that we 
may know that we are deahng with an officer of import- 
ance. 

Swindon. Pooh! 

Burgoyne. He will be fully empowered to arrange the 
terms of — guess what. 

Swindon. Their surrender, I hope. 

Burgoyne. No: our evacuation of the town. They offer 
us just six hours to clear out. 

Swindon. What monstrous impudence! 

Burgoyne. What shall we do, eh ? 

Swindon. March on Springtown and strike a decisive 
blow at once. 

Burgoyne {quietly). Hm! {Turning to the door) Come 
to the adjutant's office. 

Swindon. What for? 

Burgoyne. To write out that safe-conduct. {He puis 
his hand to the door knob to open it.) 

Swindon {who has not budged). General Burgoyne. 

Burgoyne {returning). Sir? 

Swindon. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not 
consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a suffi- 
cient reason for our giving way. 

Burgoyne {imperturbable). Suppose I resign my com- 
mand to you, what will you do? 

Swindon. I will undertake to do what we have marched 
south from Boston to do, and what General Howe has marched 



70 The Devil's Disciple Act HI 

north from New York to do: effect a junction at Albany and 
wipe out the rebel army with our united forces. 

BuRGOYNE {enigmatically). And will you wipe out our ene- 
mies in London, too ? 

Swindon. In London! What enemies? 

BuRGOYNE {forcibly). Jobbery and snobbery, incompe- 
tence and Red Tape. {He holds up the dispatch and adds, 
with despair in his face and voice) I have just learnt, sir, that 
General Howe is still in New York. 

Swindon {thunderstruck). Good God! He has disobeyed 
orders ! 

BuRGOYNE {with sardonic calm). He has received no or- 
ders, sir. Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch 
them: he was leaving town for his holiday, I believe. To 
avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her Amer- 
ican colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga 
with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable posi- 
tion. 

Swindon {appalled). Impossible! 

BuRGOYNE {coldly). I beg your pardon! 

Swindon. I can't believe it! What will History say? 

BxjRGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: 
we must send the safe-conduct. {He goes out.) 

Swindon {folloioing distractedly). My G%d, my God! We 
shall be wiped out. 

As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. 
The galloivs ichich hangs there permanently for the terror of 
evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime as 
the pillory, the ivhipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope 
attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out of 
reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, has been brought oid and 
placed in position by the town beadle, iclw stands by to guard it 
from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge townsfolk 
are present in force, aiul in high spirits; for the news has spread 
that it is the deviVs disciple and not the minister that the Conti- 
nentals {so they call Burgoyne's forces) are aboid to hang: con- 
sequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as 



Act hi The Devil's Disciple 71 

to its righieousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take 
place without a struggle. There is even some fear of a disap- 
pointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle 
ivith the ladder remains the only sign of preparation. But at 
last reassuring sJiouts of Here they come: Here they are, are 
heard; and a company of soldiers ivith fixed bayonets, half Brit- 
ish infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the 
market place, driving the crowd to the sides. 

Sergeant. Halt. Front. Dress. {The soldiers change 
their column into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty 
officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the per- 
sons who find themselves inside the square out at the corners.) 
Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o' you'll 
get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there, 
will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin' German to 
them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: 
they'll understand that. Get out of it, will you ? {He comes 
upon Judith, standing near the gallows.) Now then : y o u ' v e 
no call here. 

Judith. May I not stay ? What harm am I doing ? 

Sergeant. I want none of your argufying. You ought to 
be ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged that's 
not your husband. And he's no better than yourself. I told 
my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and tries to 
strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a lunatic. So out 
of it with you, double quick. 

Judith, Will you take these two silver dollars and let me 
stay? 

The sergeant, without an instant's hesitation, looks quickly 
and furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his 
pocket. Then he raises his voice in vijiucnis indignation. 

Sergeant. M e take money in the execution of my 
duty! Certainly not. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, to teach 
you to corrupt the King's officer. I'll put you under arrest 
until the execution's over. You just stand there; and don't 
let me see you as much as move from that spot until you're let. 
{With a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the square 



72 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

behind the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, slwnt- 
ing) Now then dress up and keep 'em back, will you ? 

Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsjoll'; 
and the sound of a military hand, 'playing the Dead March from 
Said, is heard. The croivd becomes quiet at once; and the ser- 
geant and petty officers, hurrying to the back of the square, with 
a few whispered orders and some stealthy hustling cause it to 
open and admit the funeral procession, which is protected from 
the crowd by a double file of soldiers. First come Burgoyne and 
Swindon, who, on entering the sqiiare, glance with distaste at 
the gallows, and avoid passing under it by wheeling a little to 
the right and stationing themselves an that side. Then Mr. 
Brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book 
open in his hand, walking beside Richard, icho is moody and 
disorderly. He walks doggedly through the gallows frame- 
work, and posts himself a little in front of it. Behind him comes 
the executioner, a stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves. Folloiv- 
ing him, tioo soldiers haul a light military umggon. Finally 
comes the band, which posts itself at the back of the square, and 
finishes the Dead March. Judith, icatching Richard painfully, 
steals down to the galloios, and stands leaning against its right 
post. During the conversation which follows, the two soldiers 
place the cart under the galloivs, and stand by the shafts, ivhich 
point backwards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the 
cart and places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he 
climbs the tall ladder ivhich stands against the gallows, and cids 
the string by ivhich the rope is hitched tip; so that the noose 
drops dangling over the cart, into which he steps as he descends. 

Richard {with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell). Look 
here, sir : this is no place for a man of your profession. Hadn't 
you better go away ? 

Swindon. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense 
of decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, 
and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion. 

The Chaplain {gently reproving Richard). Try to control 
yourself, and submit to the di^^ne will. {He lifts his book to 
proceed with the service.) 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 73 

Richard. Answer for your own wfll, sir, and those of your 
accomplices here (indicating Burgoyne and Swindon): I see 
little divinity about them or you. You talk to me of Chris- 
tianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies. Was 
there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (To Swindon, more 
rudely) You've got up the solemnity of the occasion, as you 
call it, to impress the people with your own dignity — Handel's 
music and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! Do 
you suppose / am going to help you? You've asked me to 
choose the rope because you don't know your own trade well 
enough to shoot me properly. Well, hang away and have 
done with it. 

Swindon {to the chaplain). Can you do nothing with him, 
Mr. Brudenell ? 

Chaplain. I will try, sir. {Beginning to read) Man 
that is born of woman hath 

Richard {fixing his eyes on him). "Thou shalt not kill." 

The book drops in BrudenelVs hands. 

Chaplain {confessing his embarrassment). What am I to 
say, Mr. Dudgeon? 

Richard. Let me alone, man, can't you ? 

Burgoynp: {ivith extreme urbanity). I think, Mr. Brude- 
nell, that as the usual professional observations seem to strike 
Mr. Dudgeon as incongruous under the circumstances, you 
had better omit them until — er — until Mr. Dudgeon can no 
longer be inconvenienced by them. {Brudenell, with a shrug, 
shuts his book and retires behind the gallows.) You seem in 
a hurry, Mr. Dudgeon. 

Richard {with the horror of death upon him). Do you 
think this is a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for? 
You've made up your mind to commit murder: well, do it and 
have done with it. 

Burgoyne. Mr. Dudgeon: we are only doing this 

Richard. Because you're paid to do it. 

Swindon. You insolent — {He swallows his rage.) 

Burgoyne {with much charm of manner). Ah, I am really 
sorry that you should chink that, Mr. Dudgeon. If you knew 



74 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

what my commission cost me, and what my pay is, you would 
think better of me. I should be glad to part from you on 
friendly terms. 

Richard. Hark ye, General Burgoyne. If you think that 
I like being hanged, you're mistaken. I don't like it; and I 
don't mean to pretend that I do. And if you think I'm obliged 
to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly way, you're wrong 
there too. I take the whole business in devilish bad part; and 
the only satisfaction I have in it is that you'll feel a good deal 
meaner than I'll look when it's over. {He turns aioay, and is 
striding to the caH when Judith advances and interposes with 
her arms stretched out to him. Richard, feeling that a very 
little will upset his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying) 
What are you doing here? This is no place for you. {She 
makes a gesture as if to touch him. He recoils impatiently.) 
No: go away, go away; you'll unnerve me. Take her away, 
will you ? 

Judith. Won't you bid me good-bye ? 

Richard {allowing her to take his hand). Oh good-bye, 
good-bye. Now go — go — quickly. {She clings to his hand — 
will not he put off with so cold a last farewell — at last, as he tries 
to disengage himself, throivs herself on his hreast in agony.) 

Swindon {angrily to the sergeant, tvho, alarmed at Judith's 
movement, has come from the hack of the square to pull her hack, 
and stopped irresolutely 07i finding that he is too late). How is 
this ? Why is she inside the lines ? 

Sergeant {guiltily). I dunno, sir. She's that artful — 
can't keep her away. 

Burgoyne. You were bribed. 

Sergeant {protesting). No, sir 

Swindon {severely). Fall back. {He oheys.) 

Richard {imploringly to those around him, and finally to 
Burgoyne, as the least stolid of them). Take her away. Do 
you think I want a woman near me now ? 

Burgoyne {going to Judith and taking her hand). Here, 
madam: you had better keep inside the lines; but stand here 
behind us; and don't look. 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 75 

Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him 
and turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts into 
it. The executioner takes off his coat and pinions him. 

Judith {resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand 
aivay). No: I must stay. I won't look. (She goes to the 
right of the gallows. She tries to look at Richard, but turns away 
with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in prayer. Bru- 
denell comes towards her from the back of the square.) 

Burgoyne {nodding approvingly as she kneels). Ah, quite 
so. Do not disturb her, Mr. Brudenell: that will do very 
nicely. {Brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, watching 
her sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes his former position, 
and takes out a handsome gold chronometer.) Now then, are 
those preparations made? We must not detain Mr. Dud- 
geon. 

By this time Richard's hands are bound behind him; and 
the noose is round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft of 
the waggon, ready to pidl it away. The executioner, standing in 
the cart behind Richard, makes a sign to the sergeant. 

Sergeant {to Burgoyne). Ready, sir. 

Burgoyne. Have you anything more to say, Mr. Dud- 
geon ? It wants two minutes of twelve still. 

Richard {in the strong voice of a man who has conquered 
the bitterness of death). Your watch is two minutes slow by 
the town clock, which I can see from here, General. {The 
toivn clock strikes the first stroke of tivelve. Involuntarily the 
people flinch at the sound, and a subdued groan breaks from 
them.) Amen! my life for the world's future! 

Anderson {shouting as he rushes into the market place). 
Amen; and stop the execution. {He bursts through the line of 
soldiers opposite Burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the gallows.) 
I am Anthony Anderson, the man you want. 

The crowd, intensely excited, listens tvith all its ears. Judith, 
half rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose 
dearest prayer has been granted. 

Swindon. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take 
your place on the gallows. Arrest him. 



76 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize 
Anderson. 

Anderson {thrusting a paper under Swindon's nose). 
There's my safe-conduct, sir. 

Swindon {taken aback). Safe-conduct! Are you ! 

Anderson {emphatically). I am. {The two soldiers take 
him by the elbows.) Tell these men to take their hands 
off me. 

Swindon {to the men). Let him go. 

Sergeant. Fall back. 

The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a 
cheer; and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment 
of triumph as they see their Pastor speaking with their enemies 
in the gate. 

Anderson {exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing 
his perspiring brow with his handkerchief). Thank God, I 
was in time! 

BuRGOYNE {calm as ever, and still watch in hand). Ample 
time, sir. Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging 
any gentleman by an American clock. {He puts up his icatch.) 

Anderson. Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you al- 
ready, General. Now tell them to take the rope from the neck 
of that American citizen. 

BuRGOYNE {to the executioner in the cart — very politely). 
Kindly undo Mr. Dudgeon. 

The executioner takes the rope from Richard's neck, unties 
his hands, and helps him cm, with his coat. 

Judith {stealing timidly to Arulerson). Tony. 

Anderson {putting his arm round her shoulders and banter- 
ing her affectionately). Well, what do you think of your hus- 
band, n o w , eh ? — eh ? ? — eh ??? 

Judith. I am ashamed — {She hides her face against his . 
breast.) 

Burgoyne {to Swindon). You look disappointed. Major 
Swindon. 

Swindon. You look defeated, General Burgoyne. 

Burgoyne. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 77 

of it. (Richard jumps down from the car, Brudenell offering 
his hand to help him, and runs to Anderson, whose left hand he 
shakes heartily, the right being occupied hy Judith.) By the 
way, Mr. Anderson, I do not quite understand. The safe- 
conduct was for a commander of the militia. I understand 
you are a — (he looks as pointedly as his good manners permit 
at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard's coat, and adds) 
a clergyman. 

Anderson (between Judith and Richard). Sir: it is in the 
hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. This fool- 
ish young man (placing his hand on Richard's shoulder) boast- 
ed himself the Devil's Disciple; but when the hour of trial 
came to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer and be 
faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent minister of 
the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, I 
found that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my 
place was amid the thunder of the captains and the shouting. 
So I am starting life at fifty as Captain Anthony Anderson of 
the Springtown miUtia; and the Devil's Disciple here will start 
presently as the Reverend Richard Dudgeon, and wag his pow 
in my old pulpit, and give good advice to this silly sentimental 
httle wife of mine (putting his other hand on her shoulder. She 
steals a glance at RicJmrd to see how the prospect pleases him). 
Your mother told me, Richard, that I should never have chosen 
Judith if I'd been born for the ministry. I am afraid she was 
right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and 1*11 keep 
yours. 

Richard. Minister — I should say Captain. I have be- 
haved like a fool. 

Judith. Like a hero. 

Richard. Much the same thing, perhaps. (With some 
bitterness towards himself) But no: if I had been any good, 
I should have done for you what you did for me, instead of 
making a vain sacrifice. 

Anderson. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make 
a world — saints as well as soldiers. (Turning to Burgoyne) 
And now, General, time presses; and America is in a hurry. 



78 The Devil's Disciple Act III 

Have you realized that though you may occupy towns and win 
battles, you cannot conquer a nation? 

BuRGOYNE. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot 
have an aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my 
quarters. 

Anderson. At your service, sir. {To Richard) See 
Judith home for me, will you, my boy? (He hands her over 
to him.) Now General. {He goes busily up the market place 
towards the Toiim Hall, leaving Judith and Richard together. 
Burgoyrie jolloivs him a step or two; then checks himself and 
turns to Richard.) 

BuRGOYNE. Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be 
glad to see you at lunch at half-past one. {He pauses a 
moment, and adds, with politely veiled slyness) Bring Mrs. 
Anderson, if she will be so good. {To Swindon, who is 
fuming) Take it quietly. Major Swindon: your friend the 
British soldier can stand up to anything except the British 
War Office. (He follows Anderson.) 

Sergeant {to Sivindon). What orders, sir? 

Swindon {savagely). Orders! What use are orders now ? 
There's no army. Back to quarters; and be d — {He turns 
on his heel and goes.) 

Sergeant {pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea 
of defeat). 'Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and 
shew 'em you don't care a damn for 'em. Slope arms! Fours! 
Wheel! Quick march! 

The drum marks time with a tremendous hang; the hand 
strikes up British Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, 
and the English troops march off defiantly to their quaiiers. 
The townsfolk press in hehind, and folloiv them up the market, 
jeering at them; and the town hand, a very primitive affair, 
brings up the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who comes 
in with them, runs to Richard. 

Essie. Oh, Dick! 

Richard {good-humoredly , hut wilfully). Now, now: 
come, come! I don't mind being hanged; but I will not be 
cried over. 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 79 

Essie. No, I promise. I'll be good. (She tries to restrain 
her tears, hut cannot.) I — I want to see where the soldiers 
are going to. {She goes a little way up the market, pretending 
to look after the crowd.) 

Judith. Promise me you will never tell him. 

Richard. Don't be afraid. 

They shake hands on it. 

Essie {calling to them). They're coming back. They want 
you. 

Jubilation in the inarkd. The townsfolk surge hack again 
in wild enthusiasm with their handy and hoist Richard on their 
shoulders, cheering him. 

CURTAIN. 



NOTES TO THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 

BURGOYNE 

General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for 
the first time (as far as I am aware) on the English stage, is 
not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as 
it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. His objection to 
profane swearing is not borrowed from Mr. Gilbert's H. M. S. 
Pinafore: it is taken from the Code of Instructions drawn 
up by himself for his officers when he introduced Light Horse 
into the English army. His opinion that English soldiers 
should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as un- 
welcome to the military authorities of his time, when nothing 
was thought of ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will 
be to thos« modern victims of the flagellation neurosis who 
are so anxious to revive that discredited sport. His military 
reports are very clever as criticisms, and are humane and en- 
lightened within certain aristocratic limits, best illustrated 
perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious, 
that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground 
than that of family influence. As a parliamentary candidate, 
Burgoyne took our common expression "fighting an election" 
so very literally that he led his supporters to the poll at Preston 
in 1768 with a loaded pistol in each hand, and won the seat, 
though he was fined £1,000, and denounced by Junius, for 
the pistols. 

It is only within quite recent years that any general recog- 
nition has become possible for the feeling that led Burgoyne, 
a professed enemy of oppression in India and elsewhere, to 
accept his American command when so many other officers 
threw up their commissions rather than serve in a civil war 

80 



Notes 81 

against the Colonies. His biographer De Fonblanque, writ- 
ing in 1876, evidently regarded his position as indefensible. 
Nowadays, it is sufficient to say that Burgoyne was an Im- 
perialist. He sympathized with the colonists; but when they 
proposed as a remedy the disruption of the Empire, he re- 
garded that as a step backward in civilization. As he put it 
to the House of Commons, "while we remember that we are 
contending against brothers and fellow subjects, we must 
also remember that we are contending in this crisis for the 
fate of the British Empire." Eightyfour years after his 
defeat, his republican conquerors themselves engaged in a 
civil war for the integrity of their Union. In 1885 the Whigs 
who represented the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American 
Independence in English politics, abandoned Gladstone and 
made common cause with their political opponents in defence 
of the Union between England and Ireland. Only the other 
day England sent 200,000 men into the field south of the 
equator to fight out the question whether South Africa should 
develop as a Federation of British Colonies or as an inde- 
pendent Afrikander United States. In all these cases the 
Unionists who were detached from their parties were called 
renegades, as Burgoyne was. That, of course, is only one 
of the unfortunate consequences of the fact that mankind, 
being for the most part incapable of politics, accepts vitu- 
peration as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether Bur- 
goyne or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, 
Mr. Chamberlain or Mr. Leonard Courtney was in the right 
will never be settled, because it will never be possible to 
prove that the government of the victor has been better for 
mankind than the government of the vanquished would have 
been. It is true that the victors have no doubt on the point; 
but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only part of 
the human comedy. The American Unionist is often a Sep- 
aratist as to Ireland; the English Unionist often sympathizes 
with the Polish Home Ruler; and both English and American 
Unionists are apt to be Disruptionists as regards that Imperial 
Ancient of Days, the Empire of China. Both are Unionists 



82 The Devil's Disciple 

concerning Canada, but with a diflFerence as to the precise 
appHcation to it of the Monroe doctrine. As for me, the 
dramatist, I smile, and lead the conversation back to Bur- 
goyne. 

Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga made him that occa- 
sionally necessary part of our British system, a scapegoat. 
The explanation of his defeat given in the play (p. 76) is 
founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from Fitz- 
maurice's Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: "Lord George 
Germain, having among other peculiarities a particular dis- 
like to be put out of his way on any occasion, had arranged 
to call at his oflSce on his way to the country to sign the dis- 
patches; but as those addressed to Howe had not been fair- 
copied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his projected 
visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were forgotten on 
his return home.'* These were the dispatches instructing 
Sir Wilham Howe, who was in New York, to effect a junction 
at Albany with Burgoyne, who had marched from Boston 
for that purpose. Burgoyne got as far as Saratoga, where, 
failing the expected reinforcement, he was hopelessly out- 
numbered, and his officers picked off, Boer fashion, by the 
American farmer-sharpshooters. His own collar was pierced 
by a bullet. The pubHcity of his defeat, however, was more 
than compensated at home by the fact that Lord George's 
trip to Kent had not been interfered with, and that nobody 
knew about the oversight of the dispatch. The policy of the 
English Government and Court for the next two years was 
simply concealment of Germain's neglect. Burgoyne's de- 
mand for an inquiry was defeated in the House of Commons 
by the court party; and when he at last obtained a committee, 
the king got rid of it by a prorogation. When Burgoyne 
reahzed what had happened about the instructions to Howe 
(the scene in which I have represented him as learning it 
before Saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn on 
him until many months afterwards) the king actually took 
advantage of his being a prisoner of war in England on parole, 
and ordered him to return to America into captivity. Bur- 



Notes 83 

goyne immediately resigned all his appointments; and this 
practically closed his military career, though he was after- 
wards made Commander of the Forces in Ireland for the pur- 
pose of banishing him from parliament. 

The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the English 
sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of the aris- 
tocracy are at stake. Mr. Frank Harris said, after the dis- 
astrous battle of Modder River, that the English, having 
lost America a century ago because they preferred George 
III, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day because 
they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones. 
Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a 
critical period of the War of Independence, said that the 
Lords could not be expected to lose their pheasant shooting 
for the sake of America. In the working class, which, like 
all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there is the same 
reluctance to discredit an institution or to "do a man out of 
his job." At bottom, of course, this apparently shameless 
sacrifice of great public interests to petty personal ones, is 
simply the preference of the ordinary man for the things he 
can feel and understand to the things that are beyond his ca- 
pacity. It is stupidity, not dishonesty. 

Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. Not 
only was he thrown over, in spite of his high character and 
distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who had 
actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct in the 
field fifteen years before; but his peculiar critical tempera- 
ment and talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic, and his 
fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and humanity, 
were just the qualities to make him dishked by stupid people 
because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long after his 
death, Thackeray, who had an intense sense of human 
character, but was typically stupid in valuing and interpret- 
ing it, instinctively sneered at him and exulted in his de- 
feat. That sneer represents the common English attitude 
towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which the 
critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for both 



84 The Devil's Disciple 

temperaments have their genius) "muddles through all right," 
is popular in England. But Burgoyne's failure was not the 
work of his own temperament, but of the stupid temperament. 
What man could do under the circumstances he did, and did 
handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his ideal empire was 
dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but because 
Sir George Germain overestimated the importance of his 
Kentish holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of con- 
quering those remote and inferior creatures, the colonists. 
And King George and the rest of the nation agreed, on the 
whole, with Germain. It is a significant point that in America, 
where Burgoyne was an enemy and an invader, he was ad- 
mired and praised. The climate there is no doubt more 
favorable to intellectual vivacity. 

I have described Burgoyne's temperament as rather his- 
trionic; and the reader will have observed that the Burgoyne 
of the Devil's Disciple is a man who plays his part in life, 
and makes all its points, in the manner of a born high come- 
dian. If he had been killed at Saratoga, with all his comedies 
unwritten, and his plan for turning As You Like It into a 
Beggar's Opera unconceived, I should still have painted the 
same picture of him on the strength of his reply to the articles 
of capitulation proposed to him by his American conqueror 
General Gates. Here they are: 

Proposition. Answer. 

1. General Burgo5nie's army Lieut.-General Burgoyne's 
being reduced by repeated de- army, however reduced, will 
feats, by desertion, sickness, never admit that their retreat 
etc., their provisions exhausted, is cut off while they have arms 
their mihtary horses, tents and in their hands. 

baggage taken or destroyed, 
their retreat cut off, and their 
camp invested, they can only be 
allowed to surrender as prisoners 
of war. 

2. The officers and soldiers Noted, 
may keep the baggage belonging 

to them. The Generals of the 
United States never permit indi- 
viduals to be pillaged. 



Notes 



85 



3. The troops under his Ex- 
cellency General Burgoyne will 
be conducted by the most con- 
venient route to New England, 
marching by easy marches, and 
sufficiently provided for by the 
waj'. 

4. The officers will be ad- 
mitted on parole and will be 
treated with the liberality cus- 
tomary in such cases, so long as 
they, by proper behaviour, con- 
tinue to deserve it; but those 
who are apprehended having 
broke their parole, as some Brit- 
ish officers have done, must ex- 
pect to be close confined. 

5. All public stores, artillery, 
arms, ammunition, carriages, 
horses, etc., etc., must be deliv- 
ered to commissaries appointed 
to receive them. 

6. These terms being agreed 
to and signed, the troops under 
his Excellency's, General Bur- 
goyne's command, may be drawn 
up in their encampments, where 
they will be ordered to ground 
their arms, and may thereupon 
be marched to the river-side on 
their way to Bennington, 



Agreed. 



There being no officer in this 
army under, or capable of being 
under, the description of break- 
ing parole, this article needs no 



All public stores may be deliv- 
ered, arms excepted. 



This article is inadmissible in 
any extremity. Sooner than this 
army will consent to ground 
their arms in their encampments, 
they will rush on the enemy de- 
termined to take no quarter. 



And, later on, "If General Gates does not mean to recede 
from the 6tli article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to 
a man proceed to any act of desperation sooner than submit 
to that article." 

Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add 
that he had his own way; and that when the actual ceremony 
of surrender came, he would have played poor General Gates 
off the stage, had not that commander risen to the occasion 
by handing him back his sword. 

In connection with the reference to Indians with scalping 
knives, who, with the troops hired from Germany, made up 
about half Burgoyne 's force, I may mention that Burgoyne 
offered two of them a reward to guide a Miss McCrea, be- 
trothed to one of the EngUsh oflficers, into the English lines. 



86 The Devil's Disciple 

The two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more 
sensitive of them, as a protest against the unfairness of the 
other, tomahawked the young lady. The usual retaliations 
were proposed under the popular titles of justice and so forth; 
but as the tribe of the slayer would certainly have followed 
suit by a massacre of whites on the Canadian frontier, Bur- 
goyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense dis- 
gust of indignant Christendom. 

BRUDENELL 

Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery 
chaplain of that name distinguished himself at Saratoga by 
reading the burial service over Major Eraser under fire, and 
by a quite readable adventure, chronicled by Burgoyne, with 
Lady Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet's husband achieved 
the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his adversary, 
in a duel. He overbalanced himself in the heat of his swords- 
manship, and fell with his head against a pebble. Lady 
Harriet then married the warrior chaplain, who, like Anthony 
Anderson in the play, seems to have mistaken his natural 
profession. 

The rest of the Devil's Disciple may have actually occurred, 
like most stories invented by dramatists; but I cannot pro- 
duce any documents. Major Swindon's name is invented; 
but the man, of course, is real. There are dozens of him 
extant to this day. 






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